


Get Hitched

by Cinderella1181, Losille



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, Spinoff to Masquerade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderella1181/pseuds/Cinderella1181, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losille/pseuds/Losille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amanda Abbington doesn’t mind taking care of three dogs, two kids, and two man children, but when Benedict starts hanging around the house too frequently—complaining about being lonely—she convinces Martin to take matters into their own hands… by signing Benedict up on the dating website GetHitchedUK without his knowledge.  Though he is none too thrilled with his friends’ antics, he ends up locating someone who interests him named Marion Jones.  He doesn’t tell Marion who he really is during their extended and photo-less courtship through email.  Six months after initially contacting her, Marion wants to meet and Ben doesn’t know what he’s going to do… or getting himself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> We're trying to go a little more multmedia with this story, including viral media like email addresses and Tumblr accounts. The email addresses ARE “real”***. Email Ben and Marion! If you’re lucky and they have a few minutes, they may email you back!
> 
>  
> 
> [Check us out on Tumblr!](http://cindersandroses.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> ***Please be advised these are for writing/roleplaying purposes and not actually real.

**From: Marion Jones <ibelonginamuseum@gmail.com>**

****To: Ben Carlton <benisadick76@gmail.com>** **

**Date: Saturday, 22 Oct 2016 at 15:56**

**Subject: Meet up?**

Ben-

Well, I got my marching orders today.  Or, more precisely, we reached the end of the summer (boo!) and secured our travel home for the end of the autumn term at the university.  I should be arriving in London next Thursday, if our travel plans don’t fall through.  With my colleague doing the planning, we always end up on these clunky old prop aeroplanes flown by ancient locals who probably shouldn’t be flying.  Don’t even get me started on the ground transportation!  It’s always an adventure.

Anyway, I wanted to know if maybe, possibly, you were available to finally meet in person?  We’ve been getting to know each other for so long now, and I really feel we might have a good thing going—hopefully you think so, too?  I know you’re a busy man, but just thought I’d throw it out there and test the waters…

But speaking of waters… the camp shower is finally free!  Woohoo!  I better go before another undergraduate steals all the hot water.  I tell you, I can’t wait for plumbing and the taking of scalding thirty minute showers should I bloody well choose. 

Let me know.  Hope everything is going well with you.

                                                                                    —Marion

———

**From: Ben Carlton <benisadick76@gmail.com>**

**To: Marion Jones <ibelonginamuseum@gmail.com>**

**Date: Monday, 24 Oct 2016 at 19:25**

**Subject: RE:Meet up?**

Marion-

Scalding hot showers? 30 minutes? That sounds all very tempting now, doesn’t it? How very cheeky of you. Did you have to beat an undergraduate student out of the way or did you manage to get in to the shower? Your bathing habits fascinate me. : )

I have been most busy at work. I think meeting up would be a good idea, I’m just not sure when. Can I keep you posted on that one? It may have to be another few weeks. I don’t want you to think I am avoiding this meeting. I’m not. I just am not sure if my work schedule will permit me to get away long enough to be able to have a chance to really commit some time to seeing you. I hope you don’t mind and don’t think I am putting it off. I really do want to meet you.

Anything new in the field of archeology that I should know about? I want to hear all about your finds and your trip home. I hope you have had an excellent Monday. Mine has been wonderful especially since I have spent most of it thinking about getting the chance to write you. I wish I had been able to do it sooner, getting your emails always thrill me… in many, many happy places. ; )

I shall leave you now with that touch of innuendo.

Until next time,

Ben

———

**From: Marion Jones <ibelonginamuseum@gmail.com>**

**To: Ben Carlton <benisadick76@gmail.com>**

**Date: Wednesday, 26 Oct 2016 at 07:41**

**Subject: Re: RE: Meet up?**

Ben,

It is entirely unfair to tease like that, especially when I’m supposed to be focusing on closing up shop.  My shower was quite lovely, but I still can’t wait to have one in my own shower.  A bath would be nice, too, with a long soak. Do you like baths?

Nothing new in archaeology, just some pottery shards and such over here.  We have to get them back to a lab to really study and clean them.  I’ll have to show them to you sometime—if we ever wrangle our busy schedules enough to meet.  I understand the being busy and if you’re hesitant about meeting… I still can’t believe I even joined an online dating website.  But spelunking across the globe does have its downsides, you know?  But then there was that time I almost ended up married, through no fault of my own, mind, to a local tribesman when I was in South America on a dig.  Maybe I should have just gone with it? 

Hopefully we can work something out.  Of course I’ll be available whenever since I’ll be back in the lab and then lectures with the new term in January.  Just let me know.

I need to go.  Same undergrads messing up my equipment.  Talk to you soon.

                                                —M

———

**From: Ben Carlton <benisadick76@gmail.com>**

**To: Marion Jones <ibelonginamuseum@gmail.com>**

**Date: Thursday, 27 Oct 2016 at 16:10**

**Subject: Safe Flight**

Marion-

I am sure you are well on your way back to jolly old England by now, but I wanted to wish you a safe flight home. I hope that you are on a plane that has no crying babies, hot (but all married) stewards, and you have the whole row to yourself. I hope you get a bounty of snacks and that you are able to sleep like a baby the whole way.

And when you get home, I hope you get in to the tub and take a nice long hot bath and think about me in it with you. Because YES, Marion, I love to take baths very much. Especially with my partner. But I hope your tub is a big one, I am rather tall. No worries if not, the one in my house will be able to hold us both rather comfortably.

See?  I really do want to meet. And we will. I swear it. Maybe Guy Fawkes night? I think I will be able to get that night away. Does that sound good to you?  I hope you say yes.

Now I’ve gotten myself all worked up…

Don’t take the plane down trying to email me back,

-Ben

———

**From: Marion Jones <ibelonginamuseum@gmail.com>**

**To: Ben Carlton <benisadick76@gmail.com>**

**Date: Friday, 28 Oct 2016 at 10:13**

**Subject: RE: Safe Flight**

Ben-

You are very lucky I didn’t attempt to read the email while I was on the flight, or the aeroplane would have dropped into the middle of the Atlantic.  I’m very frustrated, you know.  It’s absolute torture that you keep saying things like that to me and I’m left with nothing but myself to take care of it.  I don’t even have a photo of you to help me along—I’m just saying.

I have a big old claw foot tub.  It’s a lovely deep soak and should fit two, but it could be tight.  We could make it work, I’ve been known to be quite flexible when needed.  It will, of course, take quite a lot of research and practice to get it just right.  I hope you’re prepared for that.  And then we will have to compare both baths at each of our places.  I have to say, I love my bath.  It will take nothing short of full body massage jets to change my mind.

Anyway, Guy Fawkes night, you say?  Sounds great.  You can light my fire any day… God, I can’t believe I just wrote that.  Six months of this and my brain has rotted into cutesy mush.  I hope you’re happy.

Let me know details.  I’m free then.

                        —-xo M


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your interest in this story! Just a brief reminder that the tone of this story is considerably different from Masquerade, if you're following after reading that one. This is more heavy on the fluff and humor, and the humor isn't very clean humor. Very NSFW.
> 
> Also, we are using Indiana Jones as an inspiration in this story (if you haven't guessed already), and it will be explained later in the story.

**Chapter 1**

The little hairs on the nape of Benedict’s neck stood on end as he reread the words in the email that had just arrived in his inbox. He took a slow, calming inhale of sweet air, trying to regulate the sudden uneasy queasiness roiling in his stomach. And then the words came, spilling from his mouth in a woosh of air. “Oh, God, what have I done.”

“What did you say?” 

His friend’s question made him look up from the mobile screen, but he was unseeing in the brightly lit hair and makeup trailer; everything blurred together in the white hot bulbs surrounding the mirrors at each of their seats, and for a minute he thought he might faint. But slowly, ever so surely, the grey-and-blond short cropped hair of his friend came into stark relief, followed by a cocked brow and a look of concern on his face.

“Ben?”

“Huh?” Ben found himself saying, but still not quite understanding or comprehending the room around him.

Martin frowned. “What did you say?”

Ben cringed and looked back at the mobile in his hands. Thankfully, the screen had gone dark so he didn’t need to see the words in stark black lettering against a white background again. He cleared his throat. “I said, ‘Oh God, what have I done.’ No... wait...”

He set the mobile down on the counter in front of him with shaky hands and reached up to rake a hand through his curls. One of the hair assistants gave him a dirty look for messing up the hair they’d only just perfectly coifed, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. Not at a moment like this.

“I don’t understand,” Martin continued.

“No, it’s really what have _you_ and Amanda done? This is all your fault—you and this stupid idea of setting me up on that… infernal website. And now look at me, six months on and I am meeting someone off of it. I’m a statistic,” Ben bemoaned and rubbed at his temples. “A bloody statistic! Next you know, she’ll want me to do one of those black-and-white adverts with the happy music in the background.”

“Wait…no, this is a good thing!” Martin replied after a moment of confusion wherein he had to connect dots Benedict didn’t care to fully explain. “How is this bad? I’m not entirely sure I’m understanding why this is bad.”

Ben cast his friend a withering look. “It’s bad because I had to resort to a fucking website.”

Martin rolled his eyes and slapped his script revisions on the table beside the mobile. “Don’t be a wanker. You were bloody lonely and you sure as fuck weren’t meeting anyone in the typical settings. The one you _did_ meet recently and took a fancy to was never going to fall in love with you!”

“Don’t remind me,” Ben sighed and closed his eyes, thinking of his friend, who at that very moment was likely swirling around a dance floor at the Victoria and Albert with the man she actually wanted. He was happy for her, but he couldn’t help but feel the familiar sting of loss every time he thought about the situation.

Maybe Martin was right. He’d lost that battle before it even began.

“So tell me again, please, why we somehow made your situation worse?” Martin asked. “If anything, in all this time you’ve been on the website, you certainly stopped your bellyaching about not meeting anyone.”

Ben swallowed and shook his head. But he didn’t understand everything. Martin didn’t know the whole story. With a sigh, Ben said, “It’s bad because I haven’t been totally honest with her. The minute she sees me, she’s going to bolt.” 

He could have cut the deafening silence in the room with a knife. Martin slowly worked out the details in his head, preceding the predilection to gawping before finally speaking. “You mean to tell me that after several…”

“Nearly six...”

“My god, nearly six? Has it been that long? Okay, after nearly six months, you haven’t told this woman that you presumably like…”

Ben hesitated for a moment. “Very much like… could turn in to love if the spark is there when I meet her in person…”

“Love…” Martin looked at him. “Okay, ‘love if the spark is there’, this person who you could possibly _love_ , that you have been lying to them for nearly six months?”

“Not, lying... only, well, omitting. Like, I never told her my name was Benedict, just Ben. Nor my last name was Cumberbatch, but that my dad’s last name is Carlton. So she thinks I’m some bloke named Ben Carlton. Which, technically, I am. I didn’t correct her when she assumed I was an entertainment lawyer, nor did I make any suggestions that this whole thing is just a sham and that I am Benedict Cumberbatch—I am the same fucking Benedict Cumberbatch who’s Sherlock—and Martin Freeman and Amanda Abbington set me up because they are terrible, horrible, meddling little people!” Ben dared a glance over at his friend, only to see the tight look of annoyance on his face. “What?”

Martin shook his head. “We gave you an honest-to-goodness way to meet someone and you don’t even tell them the truth?”

“What was I going to say? And who would believe me? You know how many people impersonate me online. I could be anyone saying I was Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Martin pursed his lips.

“To be honest,” Ben said and shrugged his shoulders, “it was kind of nice not being Benedict Cumberbatch for a bit. But now I really adore her and I’ve gone and shot myself in the foot. And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault?!”

“Yes! Well, this really is actually—completely—Amanda’s fault. But I’m putting you in on this, too. _You_ set up that god-awful email address and did all the typing. Cancer who likes long walks and dogs. Really? How cheesy is that?” Ben said. 

Martin looked at him with barely constrained anger. “You _do_ like long walks and dogs, you ninny.”

“But on a dating profile...”

“On a dating profile that actually worked!” 

Ben rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, realizing for the first time that everyone but Claire had vacated the trailer to allow them a moment to have their argument. He laughed at himself, and then at Martin, who only grew angrier. 

“We fight like an old married couple. Completely circular and I still don’t have any help in solving my problem.”

“Yeah, well, people think we’re married anyway, so why not?” Martin reached for his script and sat back in his seat again with a low grumble. 

For as much as he was trying to make it seem like he’d relaxed, Ben knew his hackles were up and ready for an argument should another one break out again. His bristly friend was always ready for a good row, no matter how inconsequential.

Martin stopped reading and look up at him again, his voice calm and even. “If you think your feelings are mutual, I don’t think when she’ll be that off put about the fact that you’re not exactly who you say you are.”

“I just don’t know,” Ben replied. “I hope that I have been otherwise truthful with her. I haven’t changed other vital facts about me... just... what I said.”

Martin chuckled. “She’ll get over the name and career thing, and once you prove to her that the rest of the stuff you told her was completely true, she will really forgive you. Ben, if she really makes you happy, and she really cares for you as much as you care for her, then I don’t see the problem. Honestly, I think she’ll understand why you had to do what you did.”

Ben looked up from picking at his nails. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so. I have been with Amanda a very long time. I know a thing or two about how women work.”

“You know, I’m not some virgin. I have known a woman or two in my day, too.” Ben slid the mobile back into his pocket. “Granted, it’s been a while since I have known a woman in the Biblical sense. But, I can assure you, that I do in fact know the mechanics of how a relationship works.”

“I’m glad you’ve known a woman and will know one again, because if I have to read one more thing about us being in a relationship…” Martin started.

Ben frowned. “I don’t plan on introducing her to the paparazzi that soon... I want some to get to know her without the computer as an intermediary.”

Martin chuckled. “When do you actually meet her?

“Saturday.”

“Cause nothing says romance like burning a Guy in effigy,” Martin replied. “That’s brilliant.” 

Ben laughed. 

“I hope it works out in your favor, mate, and that you don’t end up burned as well.”

And there, in plain language, was the root of the problem. Sure, there was the worry about her understanding why he hadn’t been completely truthful. Being in a relationship with a celebrity was no laughing matter and there were considerations to take into account when going into said partnerships. No normal human would want this type of life of cameras in faces all the time and gossip columns writing badly researched and mostly false accusations. Even if she got over the half truths, what would she make of her new life with him in it? Would she withstand the scrutiny for him? 

Was he worth it?

Frankly, he didn’t know. As the years marched on, and failed relationship after failed relationship started and concluded, his confidence in such things diminished piece by piece.

He’d let his heart go far too deep into this online relationship, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to recover if yet another woman didn’t turn out to be who he wanted and needed in his life. Keeping their courtship to emails had made it possible to live in a happy, hazy dream world of what ifs and potentially happy endings. Subjecting themselves to reality was a far different prospect and he was the first person to know that not all real endings were happy ones. Knowing his luck in the love department, he wasn’t sure he was prepared for the safety of faceless internet dating to go away. What if he’d lost her before it ever began?

An unpleasant shiver rocked Ben for a moment until he sighed. He couldn’t live in the anonymity of the internet for the rest of his life. To do so was madness. All he could do was pray to come out on the other side at least feeling somewhat whole, and that burning was left to the bonfire.

\-----

Marion didn’t bother to lift her head from where she’d laid it on her desk when the door downstairs opened and slammed shut. Her head felt heavy and light at the same time as her thoughts swirled around in her head. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d say it was a case of Dengue Fever that had not surfaced since they’d left Asia. But, unfortunately, she knew better than that. Her dizziness was from the seemingly innocuous little email she’d just received from Ben, which was the furthest from innocent one email could get.

The worry in the Scottish accented voice that followed was evident. “Mari? Where are ye?” 

“Upstairs in the study,” Marion called and waited for the increasing steps up the hardwood staircase. From the distinctive clack of each consecutive footfall, she could discern that Ismay had high heels on, which was perplexing in its own right. Ismay never wore heels. But there were more pressing matters at hand than her friend’s choice in footwear.

The towheaded woman appeared in the doorway and paused to take in the situation. Surely it looked like a mess—a desk covered in post that had been unopened for six months while shipping boxes full of things lined the bookshelf-covered walls. All with Marion sitting in the middle of the messy madness, looking like a scared little girl despite the fact that she was a woman of certain age who technically should have had more presence of mind than to freak out over a stupid email confirming a date. A date with an honest-to-god man. She couldn’t even _remember_ the last time she had been on a date.

Marion glanced over at the door. “Hey.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What happened? Are ye okay? I came as fast as I could after your text.”

Marion sighed and pressed her palms into the desk beside her head, using her strength to lift her up from the furniture. “I’ve gone and done it.”

“Done what?”

“We’ve confirmed our date.”

“What?”

Marion turned her laptop to her friend. “Ben. I’m meeting him.”

Her friend stood staring at her as though she had a million heads for what felt like ages, and Marion wondered if something was wrong with her. The woman was very rarely silent over any matter. Least of all this one, as she had been the most vocal about her attempts to find a man online.

“Ye mean to tell me,” her friend began, “that ye called with an emergency and interrupted a very important meeting with the Dean, making it sound like ye were fucking dead or dying, to tell me that your bloody internet boyfriend has asked ye on a date? I’m wearing stilettos for crying out loud!”

“Ismay,” Marion began, “come on.”

“Do ye know what it looks like to run out on the bloody Dean?” 

Marion pouted.

“Oh, christ.” Ismay rolled her eyes, but kicked off her shoes and padded barefoot across the floor to the cushioned crushed-velvet chairs in front of the desk. 

She began to sit, but Marion jumped up at the last moment. “Wait!”

“What now?”

“You were about to sit on an artifact.” Marion stepped around the desk, grabbing from the chair one of the porcelain dildos they’d uncovered in southern China. She relocated it to one of the multitudinous bookcases lining the room, gingerly setting the piece down before returning to her desk to face Ismay.

“So where are ye meeting?” Ismay asked, drawing her legs up beneath her. 

Marion cringed, knowing how terribly the pristine suit trousers would be creased, but knew there was no stopping Izzy. Her friend never sat like a proper lady, despite years of required etiquette training. “I don’t know. He said he’d find a place and send me a text.”

Ismay laughed. “So ye graduated to mobiles now? Nice. It’s only been what? Six months?”

“Shut up. It’s not that bad. He’s just shy,” Marion said.

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

Marion scoffed at her friend. “Izzy, why are you so prickly about him?”

“Because I am.” She sighed and leaned over, resting an arm on the desk. “You’ve known him for six months and he hasn’t sent a picture and ye haven’t talked on the mobile and all this other stuff. It either means he is fuck ugly, he has a reason that he can’t communicate on a mobile like a wife or a family or something, or he’s just playing with ye. And none of that is a very good start to a relationship.”

“You can’t be like that, Ismay,” Marion said. “He’s just protective of his privacy. Besides, I haven’t been very forthcoming with him, now have I? And I called you over here to help me calm the fuck down, not make me worry more.”

“The only thing ye haven’t told him is that ye study cocks for a living.”

Marion tried to keep a straight face because, as bad as it sounded, her job _did_ involve the odd phallus or two, but only for educational and research purposes. Only Ismay could so eloquently summarize her entire life’s work. “Not only cocks.”

Ismay pursed her lips and waved her arms around the room, her gaze going to the large Priapus statute with the gigantic erection in the corner of the room. “All I see are cocks.”

“Yes, well, it would be nice to have a real one lying around, now, wouldn’t it?” Marion asked. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

“I don’t know, dildos and vibrators—not nearly as much trouble as a real, living breathing man.”

“But not nearly the same level of fun,” Marion replied. 

Ismay laughed. “Ye really think he’ll take an issue with the cocks? From my admittedly limited experience with the male gender, I tend to find that the more knowledgeable about this stuff ye are, the more they like it.”

Marion scoffed and shut her laptop. She couldn’t keep looking at the email. It would only make her break out in hives. “It’s not my field of study... it’s just... I’m worried about all that family stuff.”

“Ye still haven’t told him?”

“Oh, god, don’t look at me like that.” Marion hid her face in shame. “I can’t stand you looking at me like that.”

Ismay shook her head. “Marion, ye need to tell him. Ye said you’d done so months ago.”

“I was going to, but then we got onto a different subject, and I thought... this isn’t something you tell someone over an email,” she said. “It’s not like I’m any different because of it.”

“Ye really have no comprehension what you’re like when you’re around your family, do ye?” Ismay asked. “You’re a completely different person when they’re involved. Ye know they call ye Princess Bitchface, right?”

“Bah! They do not!”

Ismay merely pursed her lips and nodded. “Ask Willie. She’s the one that started it.”

“Ugh!” Marion reached across the desk, clawing for her mobile. “We’ll just see about that.”

Her friend sighed and placed her hand on top of Marion’s. Of course Marion knew she shouldn’t call her sister; doing so would only upset everyone and that was the last thing anyone needed this close to the holidays and Willie’s wedding. Ismay, knowing she had won her argument without so much as uttering a word, lifted her hand and sat back. “The fact of the matter is, ye need to tell him. Like now.”

“I’ll tell him if we make it to a second date. Why worry him needlessly if it doesn’t work out?”

“You’re going to get in trouble,” Ismay said. “This has the potential of blowing up right in your face.”

Marion frowned. “I’ll do it. Just give me time.”

Ismay relented, but only slightly.

“But I still need your help on Saturday,” Marion said.

Ismay threw her hands up in disgust. “I don’t know what you expect me to help ye with—my love life is about as empty as yours is. I can’t give ye pointers on anyth—”

“ _My_ love life is about to change, thank you very much. Maybe ye should join the website.”

“No, thank you.”

Marion chuckled, but sobered quickly. She leaned forward and met Ismay’s brown eyes. “I need you to come with me.”

“Come with ye where?”

“On the date.”

“Why do I need to go on the date with ye? Ye can handle it yourself. You’re a grown woman.”

Marion shook her head. “Well, let’s just say for the sake of scientific inquiry.”

Ismay sat back in her seat and laughed. “You’re worried he might be an axe murderer, too.”

“No, of course not!” Marion played with the paperwork on her desk, trying to ignore her friend’s inquisitive stare. “Okay, maybe a little. But in my defense, the website says always to meet in a public place first... but I just want an out if it goes poorly. What if it goes poorly? What if he _is_ fuck ugly and there’s absolutely no physical chemistry? Won’t you be a good friend and go with me? At least for a few minutes?”

Ismay closed her eyes and hung her head. “Ye are so going to owe me. Like when all the old men in our department criticize me for doing another paper on... I don’t know...say, women’s issues in the Iron Age, I need ye to flex your administrative might to get them to shut up.”

“You do write an awful lot about historical feminism, though.”

“Oh my god, Marion! You’re supposed to have my back. They only like ye because you write about cocks. And men love their cocks!”

“No, get it right. I write about porn and fertility in the ancient world, not specifically cocks,” Marion replied.

“Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe,” Ismay replied.

Marion sighed. “I will do anything you want me to so long as you go with me to meet him. You can leave directly afterward if everything seems on the up and up, okay?”

Ismay stared for a long time before she finally relented with a nod. “Alright, I’ll do it. But you so owe me.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll pay you back for it.”

“Good. When are we going on Saturday? I have plans to meet my brother for breakfast.”

“Since when are you on speaking terms with your brother?” Marion asked.

Ismay sighed. “He phoned me last night... apparently Da’s been trying to mend fences with him since my little indiscretion before we left for Asia. So he wants to talk to me.”

“Wow,” Marion said, not even trying to hide her amazement at the news. She knew if there was one family with more issues than her own, it was the Morrison clan. If Ismay was talking to her younger brother—a younger brother who had basically been disowned by the family—it meant the end of all things.

Ismay waved her hand. “I don’t really want to talk about it right now... when on Saturday so I can let him know?”

“Probably for dinner... so later.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “Now, can we please stop talking about men and cocks?”

“Done,” Marion said. “Let’s go get a drink. I need a drink.”

Ismay frowned. “It’s only eleven in the morning.”

“Where’s your spontaneity?”

“Touché,” Ismay said, stretching her long legs out and standing up. “Lead the way, my lady.”

Marion rolled her eyes at Ismay’s words as they clambered down the stairs in search of the kitchen and liquor cabinet.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Here's the next chapter. We are so very sorry about the wait on this one. We've both been very busy with real life stuff, but we're glad to be back and hopefully to write a lot more! Please enjoy this next installment.

All Marion had wanted was a few days off to collect herself before facing the doldrums of university lecturing. Just a few days. A day to attempt to relax before her date on Saturday, followed by said date, and a day to recover on Sunday whether the date went well or poorly. But it seemed like everyone and their uncle had other ideas for her time, not least of all her assistant at the university who had spent the better part of an hour running down all the important things going on in the office—things that Marion couldn’t give a tick about until she sat down at her desk on Monday morning.

And yet she rattled on.

“Ruth, you do know I’m on holiday until Monday, right? It’s only Friday.”

“I know, but I wanted to be sure you were aware of the department meeting that had been moved up. Dr. Pelham made sure to say your presence was required,” she replied. “And also there was a student who dropped by to see if she could pick up a book. Her tutor sent her over... Emilia... something or other.”

Marion groaned. “Haven’t they ever heard of a library? I’m an archaeologist, not a librarian.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” Marion replied.

Ruth laughed long and hard at that. “I love you, too, Mari.”

“What book is it anyway?” Marion asked. “Maybe I don’t want to give it to this girl.”

Shuffling papers on the other end gave way to Ruth’s frustrated groan. “Ugh. I don’t know. My desk is covered in graduate applications for your next research team... I have it written down on a note somewhere.”

Marion sighed. “When you find it, email it to me. Okay?”

Ruth mumbled something to her on the end of the line that sounded suspiciously like annoyance, but Marion ignored her erstwhile university secretary when the door to her home office opened to admit the frumpy woman who was her personal secretary. Jane easily balanced a small tray with porcelain teacups matching the tea pot in the center of the service.

“Why are there three cups?” Marion asked, moving the telephone receiver away from her mouth.

Jane cast her a long, serious glance. “Your father called. He’s on his way.”

“He is?” Marion frowned and looked at the clock, though she didn’t know why. Her father wasn’t due into town from the country for another week. If there was one thing Dr. Henry Jones, Earl of Ravenwood, took seriously, it was his time in the country, having long lost his admiration for the London hoi polloi. There must have been a very good reason for him to be returning to town so soon, and Marion didn’t like any of the possible reasons why. Especially when they involved coming to see her immediately upon his arrival.

“Mari?” said the voice on the phone.

“Oh, sorry, Ruth,” Marion replied. “I have to go. Remember... I am not working until November 7th. Tell everyone. I am literally not alive until then. Make up some excuse, I don’t care if the Dean asks for me or if Princess Anne shows up. I’M NOT HERE!”

“Speaking of whi—”

“Nope! Stop! Monday. It can wait until Monday. Good day!”

Marion jammed the telephone back into the cradle and let out an aggravated groan. The last person she wanted to hear from was Her Royal Highness. Frankly, Marion’d had quite enough of all things royal after the number the paparazzi had done on her that morning when she’d gone for a coffee. She just didn’t understand what was so fascinating about buying an overpriced latte that a million shutterbugs thought it necessary to descend on her quiet little spot; after all, they wanted Willie, not her.

A muted ping on her mobile drew her away from the worry creeping into her mind. She reached for the device, but noticed Jane’s censuring look and ignored it.

“What?” Marion asked.

“Are you _still_ talking with that guy from this morning?” Jane asked.

Marion rolled her eyes and flicked through to her messages. “Yes, I am.”

Jane huffed and placed her hands on her hips, shoulders slumped over and her thick, unkempt brows coming together on her forehead in a deep frown. Her personal secretary certainly had never engendered any feelings of tenderness in her regular comportment, but it was even worse when the woman was unhappy.

Like this, Jane was positively deadly.

Marion knew before she even started that the following minutes would proceed with a laundry list of reasons as to why meeting a guy offline was a bad idea. Though they were all founded in logic—good logic that came from Jane’s previous and rather decorated tenure in British intelligence—Marion chose to ignore her. It was better that way. She already had her own worries, after all, with Ismay’s words from the previous day filling her head.

But she chose to ignore those words, too. Well, most of them. She had to, if only to keep herself sane.

Six months of talking with Ben hadn’t raised any concerns other than the fact that he refused to show her his face... or any part of him for that matter. He’d teased her earlier in the morning by saying he was sitting around in his Kermit the Frog pants and hadn’t been able to send a photo when she’d asked for it. Perhaps it was because they’d been joking, but it hadn’t seemed like much to ask when they planned to meet the following evening. She’s see him then, after all, and know the truth.

Unless, of course, that was the point. Maybe he _was_ lying about his physical appearance and prolonging the inevitable; if that was the case, then it had the opportunity to pose a real problem. It wasn’t that she based her relationships on looks so much as it could mean he was a liar. She couldn’t be with someone she could not trust, especially knowing what her future entailed. This morning at the coffee shop had been but a taste of what life was destined to be after this damned wedding.

“Won’t you at least give me his vital information so that I could—”

“No!” Marion said and stood up from her seat, waving her hands in a show of her refusal, though she didn’t know if it was more for her benefit or Jane’s. “End of story. I’m meeting the man tomorrow evening for dinner at Carluccio’s in Hampstead and we’re going to see how it goes. Public. Safe.”

Jane pursed her thin lips into an even thinner line. “I should go with you.”

“Ismay’s going with me just to make sure everything’s alright, then she’s leaving if it works out,” Marion replied.

“And how is Ismay going to help you?”

Marion laughed. “She’s rather handy in a pub fight, I’ll have you know. A six-foot-four Amazon isn’t a bad thing to have around.”

“I’ll give you sheer brute force,” Jane said. “But she doesn’t have my training...”

“Yes, I know, you can kill a man with your pinky... but can we also operate under the belief that I am also a woman of thirty-three years with a heap of life experience under her belt? That I’m a woman who can take care of herself and wouldn’t unnecessarily put herself in any unreasonable danger if it could be avoided?” Marion asked. “Because I am that woman. I’m not like the people you’ve worked with in the past who can’t tell their arse from a hole in the ground. I know the difference. I dig holes for a living.”

Jane huffed. “Well, they certainly would give their personal aid more credence than you do.”

Marion rolled her eyes. “Jane, you know I appreciate everything you do for me.”

“Sometimes I don’t think you do.”

Jane left the room in a flurry of exasperation, but only for a minute, and returned with a flannel and furniture polish.

“What are you doing?”

“Dusting.”

Marion scoffed. “The maid will do it on Monday.”

Jane hissed. “This place is filthy! How you can let Lord Ravenwood into this... this—”

“Pigsty?” Marion offered.

Jane turned red and opened her mouth with a ready retort, but it died on her lips when a deep voice interrupted them with a simple, “Lord Ravenwood finds this pigsty quite homey, actually.”

Both women spun toward the open door and the source of the voice. Jane came to rest ready for battle, but Marion breathed a sigh of relief. It was only her father.

He wore a relaxed pair of khaki trousers and a warm-looking cream jumper over a collared shirt, making seem so much like a proper but modern English gentleman. At sixty-seven, he was as handsome as he’d ever been, though his sandy hair had grown whiter in her six-month absence and the creases at the corners of his tired eyes had deepened considerably.

At least his affectionate smile hadn’t changed.

Marion opened her mouth to welcome him, but stopped when the sounds of labored grunting, snorting, and nailed paws scratching up hardwood steps trickled into the momentary silence. The hunk of sometimes revolting canine love finally made it into the room, licking his droopy jowls. He’d clearly just had a drink of water. Since his water bowl downstairs had not been filled, the only source for water would have been the toilet bowl.

She didn’t care. No sight nor sound could have made her happier—not even her father’s smile—than when the dog dropped beside her and looked up with his sad brown eyes. Marion knelt to the ground and threw her arms around her familiar, not caring that she had an audience to witness the undignified manner in which she typically praised her pet—one that was completely unbefitting of someone of her station.

“Look at mummy’s widdle baby poo! Oh, I have missed my sweet little snugglekins! Grandpa brought you back early!”

“I do not appreciate being referred to as a grandfather in reference to... _him_ ,” her father spoke as flatly as possible, but managed some humor in his slate eyes when she glanced up at him.

Marion kissed the bulldog’s nose and held his jowls in her hands. “Your grandpa just wants human grandbabies, Denny, that’s it… but don’t let that fool you. He loves you, too. He’s always so happy to take you when I’m gone. He loves his napping and walking buddy.”

“You’re right, I _do_ want grandchildren. You aren’t getting any younger, Marion,” Lord Ravenwood said in that tone of voice she’d hated since she’d been old enough to understand what it meant. It was the tone of a man who wanted his wishes to be followed, but never quite issued an outright order. He simply made it seem as though it was her idea all along. “And I need an heir.”

Marion groaned and rolled back onto her haunches. “I _am_ your heir.”

“Not for the title—”

She scoffed, glancing at Jane, who had been silent this whole time. Silent, but deadly. That was Jane’s calling card. She’d receive no support there. “Tea, please, Jane? I need tea to handle this.”

“Marion,” her father began, this time more coaxing. He’d been trying this argument on her since she’d entered university. They were always the same questions: _Are you seeing anyone? Do you have any prospects? You should get out more. There’s so much to see and do, not just university work. Have you met so-and-so in your lectures? He’s a fine lad..._

Whilst in her graduate programme, it had only become more forceful.

Now, twelve years later, it appeared all pretense had subsided. What was left was a father—no, he wasn’t a father when he talked about her procreating; he was only a peer of the realm in this instance—who required a legitimate male heir for his noble title as according to his patents.

“I know you think you have all the time in the world, Marion,” he said, “but you don’t. Your time is dwindling.”

“Wow! You say it like I’m some shriveled old lady.” Marion shook her head and walked over to the small settee set against a wall. She picked up the stacks of shipping documents she’d set on the seat earlier and dropped them on the ground out of the way. Denny took a flying leap and jumped up into her lap so that she could scratch behind his ears. “I haven’t seen you in six months! Do we _really_ have to talk about this in the first five minutes you’re in the door?”

“If not now, when?”

Jane appeared at her side and held out a single porcelain cup and saucer. Marion took the steaming beverage and lifted to her nose for a brief sniff before taking a tentative sip. The hot liquid warmed a path down her throat. With it came a flooding relief that only tea could provide... even though her father still stared at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.

He finally took a seat across from her in one of the straight-backed chairs that had been in front of her desk, sitting ramrod straight and proper as he’d been trained to do since he’d been born. He never looked more like an entitled aristocrat than he did sitting in such a way.

“We must talk about it at some point,” he said. “You have to decide if Lionel is the choice... or if there’s something else... because someone will snap him up if you don’t marry him, and make no mistake, he _will_ be snapped up if you wait too long.” 

“You really think so? You’re rather optimistic.”

Her father shrugged. “Eyes can be blinded and ears deafened when there’s a chance to marry into the aristocracy, even in this day and age. I’ve seen it happen before.”

“But we’re talking about _Lionel_. No woman could be so blind, deaf, or dumb to put up with that wanker.” 

“Marion Elizabeth!”

Marion took another sip of tea and shrugged at him. “What? He _is_ a wanker.”

“He’s also your cousin.”

“And you expect me to marry him.”

Lord Ravenwood grumbled under his breath, but stopped when Jane thrust a cup of tea under his nose. “I simply want the title to stay with you and the family. Think of all the family history that’ll be ruined if left in his hands. You, at least, would preserve our legacy.”

And then there was the preeminent lecturer, historian and archaeologist speaking. Sometimes Marion wondered what it was like wearing so many hats in his daily life; he must have been dreadfully confused. She’d only ever wanted him to be her father and nothing more—not Lord Ravenwood or Dr Henry Jones. But that wasn’t her luxury.

“Well, you should know that even if I were to marry him, I wouldn’t be sleeping with him,” she finally said. “Can you even imagine what that would be like? It’d be like sleeping with Denny.”

A deep shudder worked its way up her spine. It was an appalling prospect. She dug her fingers into Denny’s furry skin rolls and he turned his large head up at her. Yes, Denny was enough snorting and grunting for one woman’s bedroom.

“I don’t care to think about any of your partners, particularly,” he replied, but seeing that he was getting nowhere, redirected his argument. “What I’m trying to say is that I need you here in England and at least open to the idea of something with someone. No more gallivanting across the globe in search of buried treasure.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she said. “I seem to remember accompanying you on a few digs in my childhood just so you could get away from Elsa.”

He sighed and shook his head. 

Marion stared into the brown liquid in her cup, knowing she’d overstepped her boundaries bringing up the unhappy memories of his and Elsa’s early marriage.

She drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. The conversation, of course, could have been nipped in the bud had she brought up Ben, but she didn’t want to say anything. Not yet, at least. Telling too many people left open the possibility of jinxing the relationship before it even began; getting her hopes up for nothing and all that wouldn’t do. Contrary to what her father and the rest of her family must have imagined, she _did_ want to fall in love, get married, and have the fairytale life. But she saw absolutely no reason to rush it, even if she knew it was difficult to get a guy to notice her to begin with...

Or understand her fascination with ancient sexual practices. Ben, at least, hadn’t been put off by that even though she hadn’t explained her field of study in depth. It was the plainness of her looks that worried her, among other things. So it was best not to endanger her fairytale by jinxing it.

“I _am_ looking. Trust me,” she said finally.

His light eyes met hers. “That’s all I ask.”

The conversation lulled at this and they sat for a few moments enjoying the tea until Marion dared to the break the silence. “Can we talk about something else? Like why you’re here—other than to lecture me about settling down. I didn’t expect you in town until next week.” 

“Chick called and asked if I wanted to get pissed at the club since he had nothing on his schedule. And I thought, of course I do! I haven’t been out with my best mate in the longest time. So I asked my other mate here,” he pointed a finger at the bulldog laying beside her, “if he wanted to come home to his mum. He was well and truly over his step-grandmother and we drove the hour into London. Here we are... and I’m sure I’ll drink enough that I’ll end up sleeping it off at Auntie’s.”

“Ah,” Marion replied with a smile into her cup.

“You know when Chick calls, I come running. We hardly get a moment just the two of us any more since he’s been so busy with all his work.”

She laughed a little. “I get it. I hope you have a good time with him. Try not to talk about the wedding much. It’ll only drive you both to drink more.”

“I endeavor to not speak about the wedding at all. Elsa and your sister—they’ll be glad you’re home now because I’m the worst listener. I’m sure they can’t wait to include you in all the planning and last minute preparation,” he said.

“I highly doubt it. Elsa and Willie want very little to do with me.” Marion sighed and shrugged at him. She hadn’t been that heartbroken over not being included in the planning, and as a matter of fact thanked the gods she needn’t be an active member in the time leading up to the big day other than at rehearsals and parties. This event was something for Elsa and Willie. It was their realm; the society stuff had always been their realm. Marion couldn’t find one whit of interest in it no matter how much she searched for one. “You know Willie won’t let me get anywhere near this wedding. It’s nothing short of a miracle that she wants me to be her maid of honour!”

“You’re her only sister. It’s expected,” he said.

“Only because I came along in a package deal with you when you married Elsa,” she said quietly.

“Marion...” he said, sotto voce, that low warning she’d always been wary of as a child.

“I don’t want to talk about it now. I’ve too much on my mind,” she said. “You go have drinks at the club with Chick, and I’m going to get things ready for a girls’ night with Ismay, and I’ll see you at Christmas.”

A muted ping of the mobile across the room made Marion look up in the direction of her desk. A smile spread her lips and her heart skipped a beat. She stood from the settee and headed for her desk without a word to her father.

Jane had taken her customary seat along the far wall, with an iPad propped up on her lap, prepared to take notes, change schedules, or do anything that was required of her position as personal secretary. Marion still hadn’t grown accustomed to the continuous intrusion or not being able to manage her own life, but it came with the trappings of what had become her life ever since Willie had announced her engagement.

Jane caught her glance and looked at the mobile, shaking her head again. Marion _definitely_ didn’t like to be nannied.

“You’ll see me in two weeks, actually,” he said. “The Trust is holding a dinner and you will be expected to attend.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s why you came here today! To tell me that!”

“No!”

“Yes! Oh, you sneaky man! Using the dog as a ploy to get into the house. I see how this is!” Marion placed her hands on her hips. “I’m not going.”

“You have to go. You’re the head in charge of your department as well as my daughter! If you want, you can bring Ismay as your date if you two are... well, if you’re involved. Are you two involved? It’s just that Hamish is bringing Lindsay back into the fold now, which is all very good, but it’s because of Ismay’s little indiscretion before you left… and I know…”

“Oh. My. God.” Marion felt certain her father had lost it—or someone else had gotten to him. She wouldn’t have put it past Elsa to plant the seed in his head. No doubt she’d want to be prepared if a public relationship between Lady Marion Jones and Dr. Ismay Morrison, daughter of the chieftain of Clan Morrison, might overshadow Willie’s big day. “Stop right there. First off, I am the head of my department because I am a sub-department of one, so there is no one else for me to oversee. Secondly, I am not a lesbian. As a matter of a fact, I hope to have a bloke with me that night, so you won’t have to worry about it.”

Marion closed her eyes and held her mobile to her chest. _So much for not bringing Ben up._

He looked at her, surprise on his face. “Someone you met on the dig?”

“Er, well, no, a little less traditional than that,” she said. “He and I are actually going out for the first time tomorrow night and I hope it will go well, so, expect him with me. Okay?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked. “We could have avoided our earlier conversation.”

Marion shrugged, feeling the heat of a light blush on her cheeks. Her father stood from his seat and stepped over to her. “I just wanted to keep it to myself for a little while. Ismay knows. So does Jane. But that’s it.”

“I understand,” he sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “You should probably go. I’m sure Chick will be waiting for you.”

“He probably is... I’ll have Daniel forward the information to Jane so she can put it on your schedule.” He kissed her forehead.

“I don’t want to go.”

He chuckled lowly, though the mirth was absent from it. “But you will go.”

She sighed. “I will.”

“Good. I’m off, then,” he said. “I’ve got to get to Chick before _that_ woman of his comes up with something else for him to do.”

“Dad, they’re married now,” she replied. “You can’t talk about her like that.”

“Doesn’t change the fact I lost my hunting buddy when he did marry her. And that’s an offense not lightly forgiven.” His small pout might have been adorable if she wasn’t truly upset after their conversation.

He walked toward the exit, but not before stopping to pat Denny on the head. Denny didn’t even look up from his nap. Lord Ravenwood huffed and paused in the open doorway to look back at her. “I do love you, Dr Jones.”

“I love you, too, Dr Jones," she said. "Have a good time at the club.”

“Good luck on your date.”

With one more smile, he left the room. Marion stood watching the empty doorway, listening to the sound of his shoes on the stairs and then the front door opening and closing. She let out a breath when he was finally gone and spun toward Jane.

“Will you please leave me for a little while?” Marion asked. “I need to be alone.”

Jane silently removed herself from the room and closed the door behind her. Marion went back to the settee to curl up with the one male in her life who placed no unreasonable expectation on her beyond that of a few good pets, food and water, and a good walk here and there.

She’d respond to Ben’s texts after she had time to decompress.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the wait! Please enjoy!

**Chapter 3**

After he rearranged the silverware and stemware set up on the table for what felt like the five hundredth time, Benedict knew he had to do something to get his mind off of the nervous energy making him fidgety and ungainly. No matter who or what walked in through the door ahead of him, it wouldn’t do to be his usually uncoordinated self. He had to maintain composure. He refused to embarrass himself.

It would’ve been nice to have more supportive friends, too, but everyone seemed to be so busy with other things. Martin and Amanda had some family thing to attend all day and then Lindsay hadn’t been able to get away from whatever he was doing to help him pick out a suit. Normally, Ben wouldn’t have cared—he was forty years old, after all. By all rights, he knew he shouldn’t be feeling this neurotic about how the evening would go. Years of first dates _should_ have made it all old hat by now. And, as a matter of fact, he didn’t typically stress much about first dates.

But it didn’t. Not in the slightest. This first was so wildly different, he was out firmly out of his comfort zone and didn’t know what to do.

He was already in love with this woman in so many respects. Six months of correspondence with no expectations had been more than a little lovely, but a part of him didn’t want to lift the veil the internet had provided them. Everything had been so perfect in that little virtual world where they didn’t have to interact on a more personal level, face to face, and deal with the obligations of real life. What would she think once she met him? Would she turn into a simpering fan? Or maybe she’d turn around and run away from him, like so many had in the past, not willing to deal with his life? This date, more than anything, meant so much to him. Rather than a typical getting-to-know-you first, this was the moment in which their future together hinged. It made him sick and excited all at the same time.

Why had he even chosen Carluccio’s? It was the one place he knew for a fact his fans frequented on the off chance they might catch him there. Talk about even more embarrassment should this all go awry. There he was in the middle of the restaurant, sitting alone, and clearly waiting on a date who either was running late or who had decided not to come. The dozen red roses sitting on the table—because he’d been a complete nutter and said all women deserved a dozen red roses on first dates—seemed enough of a telltale sign of that. What would fans think with him sitting there alone? Why had he even opened himself up to the possibility of this public shame? But then again, there was something to be said for ripping the plaster off quickly and without drawing it out. If Marion did show up, and there were fans and paparazzi there, then they’d know sooner rather than later if it might or might not work between them.

He glanced up toward the wall of windows again and the front door when he heard it jingle above it when it admitted another person. A brunette woman in a skin-tight dress who had clearly been in a tanning bed for too long slipped inside with the wind. He nearly swallowed his tongue when she scanned the room and paused on him for a brief moment. She smiled. His chest ached. She was too old to be his Marion, but the nauseating feeling that he’d been lied to turned his stomach nonetheless.

Good god, he’d lied to her, too. What would she think about that? He had no right to cast aspersions upon her character when he had done the exact same thing.

She continued back through the restaurant after speaking briefly with the host. Ben sucked in a sharp breath and consciously held it, preparing himself for the worst. But then she walked on past, to the two women waiting at a table two rows behind him. He closed his eyes and sagged into his seat. 

“Get a grip, Benedict,” he muttered to himself, taking a few more calming breaths before he dared to open his eyes again. His waiter swept by the table then and deposited a short tumbler glass filled with clear liquid, some ice, and a twist of lime. “I didn’t order that, Angelo.”

The waiter chuckled and adjusted the black tie down the front of his pristine white shirt. It always mystified Benedict how they could keep their uniforms so clean when working with food. Whenever he tried cooking anything himself, he ended up covered in foodstuffs. “You looked like you need it. It’s your usual.”

Ben licked his lips and slid his fingers around the cool glass. “You’re a godsend, Angelo.”

“I simply know a man in peril,” Angelo replied with another laugh. “Is she late?”

“Yeah,” Ben said. 

“I’m sure she’ll—” The waiter’s voice stopped, making Ben frown in confusion. Angelo stood straighter and grinned, nodding his head toward the door. “Is that her?”

It took everything he had to turn his attention toward the door. In the window was a giant woman with short platinum hair, peering into the restaurant and looking around. Her lips were moving as if speaking to someone when their eyes locked for a brief moment. The woman smiled and waved, there was more talking as she turned to look at the companion he could not see.

Then, all of a sudden, there _she_ was. 

A shorter woman, with brown hair and long fringe on her forehead popped into the window, frantically looked around the restaurant and landed on him. Her eyes went wide a second before she dropped down behind the solid portion of the door, obscuring her from view. So either they were fans... or that was Marion. He hoped above all hoped it was her, because she was one of the most beautiful women he’d seen in a long time.

“I think it’s her,” Ben said.

Angelo laughed. “Do you want me to go get her?”

“No, I’ll go,” Ben replied and stood from his seat. He took a swig of his gin and tonic, straightened his dress shirt, took a deep breath and started for the door wondering all the while what the hell he had gotten himself into.

\------

Marion had never felt a pain so horrible as she did when her stomach clenched and unclenched with apprehension. What had she done? This was a bloody barmy idea and she should have known better than to get herself into a situation like this. Why had she even joined the damned website to begin with? There was no earthly reason why she should have been putting herself through this much torment just for something that most likely wouldn’t pay off in the end.

Making it worse was her best friend, God love her, speaking in her chipper Scottish brogue. How could she be so relaxed and happy at a time like this?

Ismay strode along beside her with a curiously energetic spring in her step. Her friend’s natural joie de vivre had always mesmerized her, but it was at an all time high this evening. Surely her breakfast with her brother, Lindsay, hadn’t been that amazing. Could it have been, though? Marion, ashamedly, hadn’t bothered asking because she’d been too caught up in her own crisis. Making a mental note to inquire about later, after this whole sordid business was over, Marion breathed in and out in an attempt to quell the rapid pound of her heart.

Ismay just seemed too joyful to be accompanying her on this expedition after trying so desperately to get out of going two days ago. Something had been off ever since they’d met at the Underground station in Westminster. And the closer they got to the restaurant, the more peppy she became.

Marion didn’t know what to do. Her own feet felt heavier and heavier, as though she were attempting to walk through wet cement that kept piling on and dried a little harder and heavier with every step she took. She wanted to keep moving, but it had become impossible, so she stopped and sucked as much cold autumn air into her lungs before calling to Ismay, “I can’t go in.”

Ismay stopped dead in her tracks, swirled around and stepped back to her. “What do ye mean? Ye have to go in. He’s in there right now waiting for you because you couldn’t pull yourself together at home. You’re almost twenty minutes late and he’s _waiting_. Now come on. You’re a Jones, for goodness sakes. What would your Da say if he knew he were acting this way?”

Ismay went to grab Marion’s arm to urge her forward, but Marion was fast and jerked away.

“I can’t!” Marion exclaimed. “I just can’t do it. What if he is terribly unattractive or maybe he’s just not my type. What if he doesn’t like me? What if _I’m_ not attractive enough for him? What if he takes one look at me and runs away?”

“Okay, now you’re grasping at straws,” Ismay said with a disgusted shake of her head. “You’re beautiful and I’m sure he’ll be okay, too... and if you think beauty is going to be the thing that might make him have second thoughts about all this, then you’re seriously mistaken.”

Marion groaned and ran her hands through her hair. “Oh, god, don’t even say that! I can’t possibly think about that right now.”

Ismay rolled her eyes. “What do ye want me to do, then? To make it better for you? Do ye want me to go and take a look and describe him for ye?”

“Yes!” Marion said.

“I was only kidding!”

Marion sighed and stuck out her bottom lip in what she hoped was an epic pout. “Please?”

Ismay’s arms flew up as though she were asking the gods for support. At last, she shook her head and sighed. “Fine, FINE! I’ll look.”

“He said he’d have a dozen red roses with him because he said every girl should get roses on her first date,” Marion replied, though Ismay ignored her as she stepped in front of the door and peered inside the window.

As Ismay squinted and shifted closer, all Marion could do was stand in her spot with her leaden legs and chew on one of her fingernails. This was a mistake. A really big mistake.

It wasn’t an incredibly large place, if Marion remembered correctly from the last time she’d dined at Carluccio’s, so it didn’t take Ismay long to find him. Ismay stopped scanning—that much Marion could see—but beyond that, nothing showed on her impassive face. It made Marion’s stomach sink. Ismay would try to find a way to deaden the blow if she could, and Marion felt sure of the fact that her friend’s silence was tantamount to admitting something was terribly wrong with her date.

Then Ismay finally spoke. “Well, he’s not unfortunate looking by any means. I’d even go so far as to say very, very handsome...” 

“Really?” It came out as more a squeak than anything. She felt her face heat in a blush and cleared her throat to speak normally. “What does he look like?”

“Sherlock,” Ismay said.

“Oh… Rathbone or Granada or…” 

“BBC,” Ismay replied evenly.

Marion frowned. “He looks like Benedict Cumberba—”

The question stuck on her tongue the instant her throat closed in horror. Oh, god, _no_.

Marion rushed toward Ismay and pushed her aside. It took her only a second to find the man sitting at a small square table with the blood red roses providing a stark contrast on the white table linens. He chatted with a waiter standing at his table, but turned finally and looked toward the door. They locked eyes for a second, but it was a second too long as all the air left her lungs and her head swirled around her. She yelped and dropped down below the window, causing quite a scene on the street as she balanced on her haunches with a hand on the solid part of the door. 

“Oh my god! OH MY GOD! How could I have been so stupid?” she said. 

“Yes, it boggles the mind, and ye have two advanced degrees, too,” Ismay said. “You’d think you would think things through.”

Marion scoffed. “You’re not helping! And you’re acting like this isn’t a surprise!”

Ismay shrugged her shoulders and looked back into the restaurant. She waved and motioned down to Marion.

“What are you doing?! Don’t draw _more_ attention to me!”

“He waved at me first and I was indicating that my best mate is a tit,” she replied. 

Marion was just about to say something when the door she had been leaning on gave way. She fell back onto feet and legs, unable to keep herself righted on the uneven pavement beneath her. As she came to rest, she at least thanked the gods that she’d had the good sense to close her eyes so as to avoid seeing the initial shock in his eyes of her laying sprawled out at his feet like... like some ninny. 

Finally, she took a steadying breath and cracked her eyes open, enough to meet the startling but amused clear blue-green gaze of her date. A thick, dark curl fell across his forehead as he bent down to offer a hand. She stared at it for a good minute, thinking it looked rather large and strong and long-fingered, but not comprehending that she should actually take it.

Ismay, who stood close at hand, cleared her throat. Marion looked up at her friend, then back at her date, and flushed. Good god. Marion coughed and finally took his hand. It was strong— _he_ was strong—as he lifted her into a standing position. He was also tall, but not too tall with her five-eight frame. And the sudden rush of heat that filled the small space between them nearly bowled Marion over again.

“ I… um... I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…” 

“No, no,” he said, his voice deep and soft as a rumble of thunder. Breathless, almost. “I wasn’t sure which way you had slid down the door on your hasty retreat. It’s my fault.”

And that was the moment she giggled like a bumbling, airheaded little girl. _Giggled._

“I feel like such an utter clot,” Marion said. “Ben is a dick... I never put two and two together and Carlton is one of your middle names... And your dad’s stage name. I just...”

“I’m sorry I never came out and said it. I wanted to get to know someone who liked me for me. Not because of who I was,” he said. “The internet allowed that to happen.” 

She nodded silently. She didn’t really care, she realized. It didn’t matter that his job was different than he’d let her believe. Besides, he was handsome. Handsomer than he was onscreen, though it had been awhile since she’d had the opportunity to see him in anything. Living out in the middle of nowhere China had put a dent in keeping her up to date on cinema and television.

“I can practically smell the pheromones wafting off the both of ye, I am getting nauseated,” Ismay said, once again reminding everyone she was still there and being ignored.

Marion shook her head clear of thoughts and rubbed her brow as she glanced back at Ismay. “I’m sorry. This is Ismay.” 

“Oh, the infamous Ismay! I’ve heard a lot about you.” Ben’s warm smile made Marion melt, though it did little for Ismay. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Ismay replied. “However, since I’ve ascertained that ye won’t be slicing her up into little pieces... I should be going. Though I think I would love very much to stay and witness this.”

Ben frowned. “You thought I’d chop you up?”

Marion hid her face. Sometimes she really hated Ismay and her big, fat, Scottish mouth. “No, it’s just that... I didn’t know if... oh, god! I’m sorry.”

“She thought ye might be an axe murderer,” Ismay added.

“Ismay! Go home!”

Ben laughed, a gushing release of air that made Marion feel somewhat less like a tit. “It’s okay... I’m sure I didn’t help with all the mysteriousness.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Ismay chuckled. “Well, alright then, ye crazy kids, I’m heading home. Donnae do anything I wouldn’t, Mari.”

“Go home, Ismay.” Marion repeated. “I can handle it from here.”

“Well, fine if ye say so,” she said. “It was very nice to meet you, Benedict, however brief it was. I have a feeling I will be getting to see ye more in the future. I don’t think Dr. Jones is going to let you go.”

Marion glanced down between them, where Ismay had looked. She still hadn’t let go of Ben’s hand, though Ben certainly didn’t seem to mind it if he had noticed.

Benedict caught her mortified gaze as it lifted to him briefly. She tried to pull her hand back, but his fingers clenched tight enough that she was unable to. He chuckled. “Oh, believe me, I don’t plan on letting her go, that is if she’ll have me after this first date.” 

Marion sighed. “You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Cumberbatch. There may be nothing left of me after this date if it keeps going like this.” 

“I’ve been waiting six months to meet you,” he replied. “I don’t intend to let you go anywhere without me for awhile.” 

Ismay burst out laughing and shook her head. “Marion, I don’t think ye have to worry about him slicing ye up, but I do think he is going to eat ye. See ye later. I want all the gory details tomorrow.” 

With that pronouncement, Ismay wiggled her eyebrows and turned on a heel to walk off down the street. Marion stood staring after her in abject horror as Benedict Cumberbatch laughed at her best friend’s crude humor.

“You found that… funny?” she managed to splutter.

“You’re not friends with Martin Freeman and not hear a thing or two worse than that. My god! I want to introduce them—Martin and Ismay—lock them up in a room and record them. I think we’d all be in stitches for months.” He smiled at her and reached up with his free hand to brush aside the hair in his eyes. “Sorry. I hate this hair... but we’re right in the middle of filming right now, so I’m stuck with it.”

“I love it,” Marion breathed.

His grin widened. “You’re not too put off by the fact that I’m not exactly who I said I was?”

She shook her head. No, she wasn’t. In fact, it would make telling him exactly who _she_ was just a little bit easier. Still, though, that information could wait. It _had_ to wait. First she had to let it sink in that her date was a famous film star. And that, though he seemed interested in her, it didn’t necessarily spell happiness in the end for them. As a matter of fact, easier to admit she hadn’t told him the whole truth as it might be, it would only make the situation more complicated. Paparazzi was difficult enough with one person in the public eye. But with two in the public eye and all that stuff with Willie’s wedding to a royal, it spelled disaster.

“Oh, no, did I make it seem like that?” she asked. “It’s—no, I understand why you did it. I just can’t really believe it. It’s not something you expect when you show up on a date with a guy you met on a website.”

“What _did_ you expect?”

“Sinfully ugly axe murderers.”

He laughed long and hard at that. “Then you’ll come in and have dinner with me even though I have been bending the truth these past months?”

Marion smiled, feeling that familiar fluttering in her belly again. Reality could wait. She was going to stretch this strange dream out just a little while longer. What would it hurt, anyway, for one evening out pretending to be some normal old professor... and not the Earl of Ravenwood’s daughter. “I would love nothing more than to have dinner with you, Ben. Nothing more in the world.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so sorry about the wait for an update on this story. Shortly after posting the previous chapter, Losille had a death in the family that has taken some time for her to recover from. We foresee fairly regular updates from here on out, maybe every few weeks. :)
> 
> Additionally, this story is now part of an "interactive" sequel to Masquerade over at Tumblr. If you read Masquerade and want to find out what happens, [go over there](http://after-the-masquerade.tumblr.com/post/94964471583/announcing-after-the-masquerade-interactive-fanfiction).
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for your interest! :D

**Chapter 4**

The next morning, Benedict shuffled down a flight of stairs into an unfamiliar kitchen with a lumpy canine breathing hot air onto his bare ankles and following him with a dogged persistence. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, taking in the vision of cheery, sunny spot, larger than his own kitchen, but still cozy and warm in the clean white and soft yellow colors. It didn’t appear as though it got much use aside from breakfasts and the occasional midnight tea, but he didn’t mind that much. He didn’t expect it to look very used considering how much time the owner of the house spent away on archaeological digs. 

He’d intended to come down and fix breakfast for them while Marion slept, undeterred as she was to wake after their long, and rather amazing night together, but it was daunting prospect in such a strange kitchen. Thinking he ought to have prodded her awake to ask the questions in which he needed answers, he quickly tossed the idea away. He wanted to be romantic. And romance didn’t begin with waking up your lover before she was good and ready on a Sunday lie in. Besides, he didn’t think she’d consider it a huge breach of first date sex etiquette to go rooting through a kitchen for the essentials when the intention was a good one. At least, he hoped it wasn’t.

As luck would have it, however, he found the breakfast try in the first cupboard he looked into without needing her guidance. The rest of the feast took a little more time to procure as he opened and closed cupboards and drawers, but undaunted he remained until he had set the kettle for tea and located the clotted cream and strawberries in the fridge.

A growly yip took his attention away from his assessment of the ripe fruits. Denny stood at the back door, and once the dog had his attention, it turned to look at the door and scratch at it. Ben chuckled. At least he knew the universal sign of needing to relieve oneself. Knowing that it was better to make peace with the beast sooner rather than later, he let Denny out into the garden to do his business. The dog seemed to grunt his thanks and hobbled out onto the small patch of frost-covered grass. Ben left the door open in case Denny wanted to come back in, and then went back to his work, the dog ever present in his mind.

He found himself strangely fond of the rotund creature, despite the scene the previous evening when Marion had given him a tour of the house ending in her bedroom. Denny had been hot on their heels, but Ben had tried—valliantly, mind—to ignore him; Marion was fond of the dog, so he quickly decided it was best not to ask her to choose between them so soon after meeting. However, there was nothing romantic or even a little sexy about two beady black eyes peering over the bedside at you accompanied by a grotesque amount of heavy breathing that was, in fact, not your own. 

Intent on impressing Marion with his prowess—Ben wanted nothing more than to make a good and lasting impression on her—he had informed her that he could not “perform”, as it were, with an audience. Either Denny or he had to go.

Marion had giggled and pushed him aside, wobbling as she walked toward the door, shooing the peeper onto the landing outside her bedroom where she shut the door in his jowly face. After ten minutes of Denny making quite the racket in the hall, he finally quieted down, and they were able to fully resume their planned activities for the evening without breaking down into too many giggles from the indignant grunts Denny had first made upon his removal from the room. 

It certainly wouldn’t be a memory he was soon to forget, even _if_ the sex had ended up being mediocre. Fortunately, it had not, and it had him feeling rather relaxed. It was early days for them, but he knew he’d never tire of her physically. He wanted to learn everything about her body, from the toes up, and last night had been but a taste of what he wanted. He hoped above all hopes Marion agreed with him and that they could explore it further.

When he’d woken up in the wee hours of the morning in her bed and actually had the chance to take stock of everything that had happened within the last twenty-four hours, he had the very real and very strange sense of completion. As though he had finally, after so very long, achieved one of the most important items on the proverbial bucket list. He’d been searching for this all consuming feeling of contentment his whole life. That moment when all the planets aligned and it just felt _right_. He’d never experienced it, not even in his past relationships. Strange, though, that they’d had to meet online to do it. He would have never guessed it would happen like it had. But he was more than grateful to have done it now.

He would have to remember to send Amanda and Martin a thank-you basket, or bouquet, or send them on holiday. Something to thank them for setting him up on that delightful website where he had found her. When he found Marion.

 _His_ Marion.

Nothing seemed enough to adequately thank them for what they had brought into his life. Sure, he still wasn’t happy that they’d done it behind his back, but they had engineered this in their own well meaning way. And he couldn’t let them go ignored for their efforts in bringing this beautiful, intelligent and wickedly funny woman into his life.

With a grin for himself and a small sigh, he turned to check on the kettle, but froze in his spot when he realized he wasn’t alone, and it most certainly wasn’t Denny or Marion who had joined him. A weird, deep yell shot from his mouth. Unable to stop the noise, he closed his eyes and opened them to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. There, standing with her hip resting against the counter tops was all (nearly) six and a half feet of Ismay, staring at him with an expression of amusement on her face. She ran her gaze from head to toe and back up again. A grinning laugh bubbled on her lips. 

“Mornin’,” she said with a toss of her hair so that a bit of her platinum fringe wouldn’t be in her eyes.

Benedict had never felt so exposed. He normally wouldn’t have minded the attention, but his current state of complete undress made it difficult to meet the strange woman’s gaze and stand there proudly. Other men might have had more fortitude, but he did not in light of being unfairly surprised like this. 

His eyes darted to the nearest thing he could find to give him any shred of decency. The small white tea towel he’d used to clean up a bit of spilled cream only covered the most necessary bits, but it was enough for him to regain some footing with Ismay. 

“What are you doing here? How did you get in here, Ismay?” He didn’t take any precaution to hide his annoyance. It wasn’t wise to corner him like that.

“I have a key, and if you’re standing nude in the middle of her kitchen the very first morning after, I think you’ll be getting one, too, now won’t you?” She laughed. “And you left the garden door open. I heard Denholm in the back garden when I walked up. I thought I’d go check on him.” 

“Why are you here?”

“Because Marion told me to come by this morning so we could overanalyze her date. She wasn’t supposed to be inviting you to stay over.”

She reached over, completely unfrazzled, and plucked one of the strawberries off the platter. He watched her chew the ripe fruit, but didn’t make any effort to move. He couldn’t move, really. His legs refused to work properly. 

Ismay nodded to his tea towel and turned back to the tray. “You know, you don’t have to cover yourself like that…”

“And just why not?” he asked indignantly.

Before Ismay could answer, Marion’s voice interjected, “Because it doesn’t do anything for her.” 

“Huh?” Ben frowned and spun around as Marion joined the small party in the kitchen.

Marion smiled and stepped over to him. She stood on her bare tip-toes and brushed a soft kiss across his lips in passing. It had the exact opposite effect on his body than he wanted at the moment. Why the fuck hadn’t he beat feet out of the room anyway? There was no reason to be standing in the middle of the kitchen with his girlfriend and her best friend... the best friend who now had to be checking out his arse.

He spun around again and pressed up against the counter top, flinching as his bum connected with the cold granite. “But...”

“Now if _I_ was here in nothing but what God had graced me with upon my birth, it’d be a little different matter,” Marion added with a wink at her friend.

Benedict looked down at her. She wore his button down from the night before. It fit spectacularly well across the shape of her full breasts but did not pucker at the button plackets. Despite having spent the night on the floor, it didn’t look particularly wrinkled. And goddamn, did her breasts look amazing from this angle above her. 

_No, no!_ Margret Thatcher and Winston Churchill in the bath together! That’s what he needed to be thinking about, not the shape of Marion’s breasts under his shirt or the fact that she also wore his pants slung dangerously low on her hips and rolled at the waist to keep them up, really showing more of her long legs than she probably intended.

Ismay distracted him momentarily. “Even though I like to order off the dessert menu, doesn’t mean I don’t like to look at the whole thing!”

Marion laughed. “Like a fine work of art, isn’t he?”

Benedict tried not to let his head—either of them—grow too large at the acknowledgement. As much as he loved to hear Marion say it, in front of Ismay, whom he did not know very well, it was odd. Very, very odd. And yet, even though he could very easily escape, he didn’t. He let them both look... with the well-placed tea towel, though. 

Ismay grinned. “I have to say, Ben, as someone who has listened to Marion explain—ad nauseam—about the ideal prick for the last ten plus years, and how it has to be something more than what it was in classical art, but not so much what it was in sub-continent Indian fertility art in the 6th century. Oh, and _clearly_ she wants something more than the Egyptians wanted in any dynastic period... you, Benedict Cumberbatch, may just have the most ideal prick on the face of the known planet. And all men should bow down to you. You should swell with a sense of pride.”  


“Oh, Ismay, really? That was crude even for you!” Marion exclaimed and shook her head. “Honestly.”

Ismay, not to be scolded, continued, “Part of you really likes it, Marion. Let’s be honest. Judging by the way you’re glowing this morning, you certainly liked it.”

Marion rolled her eyes, but Ben didn’t miss the becoming blush that spread across her cheeks. God she was beautiful.

The kettle interrupted the conversation for a moment while Marion began making tea. Ben watched with some interest at the expert way she went about it, as though she’d done it in a rather formal setting before beyond serving tea to family and friends at her home. He wondered about this bit of information, but stored it away to ask her later. Marion grabbed a third tea cup from the cupboard, presumably for Ismay. Clearly, she’d be staying at least as long as a cuppa lasted her.

So he sighed and said, “I, um, think I am going to go upstairs to find my trousers.” 

“Oh, are you embarrassed? You shouldn’t be. Most men when they find out I’m a lesbian just kinda let things… hang.” She smiled. “You’re amongst friends. Feel free.”

“I am not that kind of gent, Ismay,” he said.

“Shame, you really are a fine example of masculinity,” Ismay replied and popped another strawberry into her mouth. “But you probably should go put some trousers on, Ben. Jane’ll be here any minute.”

“Jane?” he asked.

Marion turned around to look at Ismay, a hand on her forehead. “Oh my god, Jane! I forgot to tell her to come later! It’s probably a good thing you were the one to happen across him, then, Iz. If not, Jane would have had a stroke!”

Ben took a breath, annoyed that he hadn’t been acknowledged. “Who’s Jane?”

“My personal secretary,” Marion replied in passing. She grabbed a strawberry and dipped it in the clotted cream. 

“Why do you need a personal secretary?” he asked. “On a Sunday?”

“It’s not important.”

Clearly, it _was_ important, but he could see he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her. 

Ismay shifted uncomfortably on her feet. “Alright, I should be off. I have a meeting with a vicar’s daughter after she gets out of church and I only just stopped by to make sure that your date went well. I’m satisfied that it did.”

Benedict looked at her. “It went very well. Good bye, Ismay.”

She laughed and shook her head. “See you two later. Marion, call me.” 

He waited until he heard the door thwap shut before he sagged in relief. Benedict wasted no time in pressing Marion back against the counter top and giving her a real kiss. The kind that necessitated running his tongue along the contour of her full lips to remove the access of the sweet fruit and cream she’d been eating. When he finally stepped back, he smiled. “Good morning.”

“Well, good morning to you, too,” she said as she struggled to find air. “This really is a lovely sight to see first thing in the morning. You naked and wearing a tea towel in my kitchen. I could get used to seeing this, Mr. Cumberbatch.”

“You’re wicked, Ms. Jones.”

Marion pushed away from him. “That’s Dr. Jones, to you.”

“I do like a powerful, intelligent woman,” he mused.

“I don’t know about powerful, but I’ll give you intelligent,” Marion laughed.

Ben pulled her back against her chest and tossed the tea towel aside. “I guess I can stop thinking about Margret Thatcher and Winston Churchill in the bath together now.” 

“Why on earth were you thinking of that?” A delicate hand pressed against his chest and slowly traced a trail down his front, stopping in the general area of his navel. It was hot and it was maddening. All he wanted to do was throw her over the counter and have his way with her.

“Because seeing you in my clothes caused certain parts of my body to stir, and the very last thing I needed was for Ismay to see _that_. I have a feeling she would never let me live it down if I got an erection in the middle of the kitchen. It would be Christmas dinners and birthday parties years from now and she’d _still_ be telling the story of the time she saw Benedict’s hard on.”

Marion laughed, dropping her fingers further still until she gripped him. “I hate to break it to you, Benedict, but she’ll be telling this story years from now anyway. And it will become more embellished every time she tells it—so you should have let it go.”

“I have to keep some mystery.” His laugh died away on his lips and turned into a growl as she moved her hand slowly up and down his length. “Are we going to do this here in the kitchen?”

“We can if you want to,” she said.

“What about Jane?” 

Marion shrugged. “She’ll be another hour or so. She does my shopping on Sundays.”

“Why do you need a secretary, Marion?”

She sighed and pushed away from him completely. He could see in her eyes that this was a subject she didn’t want to get into, but he knew better than anyone it was preferable to find out all the details about someone before going too far.

“You won’t just let it go, will you?”

“I’m sorry,” he said with a shake of his head. “You know my past—we’ve talked about it before. And I have nothing to hide, now that you know who I am. I’d prefer the same from the woman I’ve been talking to for six months.”

Marion sipped her tea as though to fortify herself and then finally spoke. “I’m the eldest daughter of a peer. It’s just what’s done in my family. I have obligations and such that aren’t just to my job. But to the family and the title, too. So I have Jane. She keeps house, does the shopping and harangues me about my schedule.”

Benedict stood silently, considering her words and the nervousness on her face. Why in the world was she so nervous about all that? “Did you think I wouldn’t like you because you’re some duke’s daughter?”

“Well—people have had issues with it in the past,” she replied. “And Dad’s an earl, not a duke.”

“It’s not like you’re a royal or anything.”

Marion afforded him a laugh that sounded stilted at best, but he decided to ignore it. He could see that the whole conversation wasn’t on her list of preferable subjects. “You’re not mad that I didn’t tell you?”

“No! Of course not. After the stunt I pulled not telling you who I really was? This is nothing! I have an assistant, too. It just seemed odd because, well, you’re a professor... not... _me_ ,” He reached out for her, but she made no effort to close the gap between them. “Come here, Marion. Please?”

She cast him a wary look but allowed him to wrap his arms around her. 

Ben kissed her forehead, then her lips. Lightly, but he hoped meaningfully. “My parents are bloody lunatics sometimes, too. But I would hope you wouldn’t hold it against them.”

Her natural, full laugh was back at that. “I won’t. I want to meet your parents.”

“And I want to meet yours,” he said.

“Good, because there’s a dinner I have to attend in a few weeks,” she replied. “My father hosts it every year—he’s on the board of governors for a Trust that funds the university archaeological institute. Hopefully you can come.”

Benedict laughed and pushed some of her wild hair behind an ear. “I have to check my filming schedule, but I wouldn’t miss it.”

Marion nodded and rested her head against his chest. They stood like this in the middle of her sunny kitchen for some time, listening to the grunting and rooting dog outside the window over the sink. Finally, she looked up at him, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “So... about what we started...”

“We should go upstairs,” he said. “If your secretary will be here—”

“Not for a half hour now.” She pulled away from him and stepped over to the counter. There she pushed the breakfast try aside and hopped up on the cool granite surface. When she settled, she caught his eyes and began to undo buttons, one by one, achingly slowly. “Now you have twenty-five minutes, Mr. Cumberbatch. Time’s wasting. Do you want me or not?”

Never one to pass up a golden opportunity such as this, he quickly slipped into the spot between her thighs and engaged her with another kiss, with the promise of more—of a future—on his lips.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the support! :D

**Chapter 5**

Ruth popped her head up over her computer monitor as soon as Marion walked in the door Monday morning, a question already forming on her lips. Marion saw the look of eager expectation, but stopped her with a quick gesture with her hand. She was in far too happy a mood to allow any odious university business to intrude and ruin the heavenly cloud she’d been riding for an entire week.

Frankly, she was still trying to make heads or tails of it herself, and she preferred to live in the dream land where it _was_ actually possible for a woman like her to be in a relationship with a man like Benedict Cumberbatch. After seven days, and no little amount of worry that she’d wake up from the particularly lucid dream she was convinced she’d been living, she had only begun to accept the fact it might actually be her reality. Her very thrilling, very satisfying reality. And that it was possible to have heaven on Earth.

Still, though, she couldn’t help but feel there was another shoe that had yet to drop, and when it did drop, it would be ghastly. Perhaps it would come at the Trust dinner, when it would likely become clear to Ben she wasn’t any normal peer’s daughter. That certainly wouldn’t go over well, when she’d had the chance to tell him of her royal connections that first morning after meeting him. So she refused to ruin her small and likely short-lived moments of happiness with university politics and business in which she never wanted to be involved.

Ruth, however, was unimpressed she had been so quickly dismissed. Marion smiled, hoping to assuage Ruth’s scrunched nose. “Good morning, Ruth.”

Her assistant fidgeted in her seat and grabbed a stack of red portfolios on her desk, holding them up for Marion to see. She was undaunted in her task. “I put together the short list for the next dig, like you requested.”

Marion sighed. “There’s not going to be a ‘next dig’ for awhile.”

“What do you mean?”

Marion shrugged, thinking back to the man she had reluctantly let out of her grasp that morning so he could return to his job for a morning call time. She knew Ben would likely support her decision for another dig before she settled down, if that really was their future, but there were others who would not be so welcoming of her penchant of free spiritedness. Her thoughts quickly turned to her father’s edict only a handful of days before. It made her sigh. “My father asked that I take a break from digs.”

“B-but you already have it planned,” Ruth said. “You said on Monday when you came back that it would be—”

“I know what I said.” One of the large tomes in her arms slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground before she could catch it. With a groan of annoyance and roll of her eyes, she set her coffee cup down on a shelf and carefully knelt to pick up the bricklike text. She righted herself and adjusted the slim skirt on her hips.

When she glanced back across the room, Ruth’s bespectacled blue gaze was on her, unyielding and waiting for the rest of the story.

“Dr Morrison will supervise the dig for me,” Marion replied. “She’ll be by to pick up the portfolios some time today.”

Ruth frowned. “She was already by, Marion. She didn’t say anything about it.”

“She came by?”

“Yes. She mumbled something about you not being here earlier and neglecting your duties because you’re finally seeing someone.” Ruth dropped the stack of portfolios on her desk again with an attitude that was not to be mistaken.

Marion laughed. “Actually, I’m late because my infuriating sister conveniently forgot to tell me ahead of time she planned to visit this morning, designer in tow, for a dress fitting for the wedding.”

Which was only partly true. No one would have been at home had she awoken at her normal hour and left for work, but Ben had slept over for the second night in a row and she hadn’t wanted to leave the warmth of the bed—or his arms—before she absolutely had to do so. Hindsight always being twenty-twenty, however, made her rethink her choices. Dodging Willie’s whiny, entitled insistence would always trump staying a few minutes longer in a lover’s arms, no matter how much said lover meant to her.

“Well, that explains why you’re wearing a skirt. Did she dress you today, too?” Ruth asked and shuffled a few papers around on her desk.

Marion looked down at herself and the slim grey pencil skirt and flouncy blouse. She wouldn’t typically have chosen to wear such clothing for a day of lectures and meetings, instead going for comfort in trousers and a blazer, but things had changed. She’d been spending more time shaving legs and doing her makeup this week than she ever remembered doing so before. It felt necessary, almost, to maintain appearances now that she was in a relationship. Not that Ben would have cared—but she cared. And that meant spending more time on her appearance, especially on a day when he planned to visit for lunch. There was something very confirming about the fact that they were visiting each other at their places of employment—even though she had yet to be invited to set.

“No, I dressed myself,” Marion finally replied. “And _that’s_ because I’m getting laid.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Well, would you like me to ring Dr Morrison or have a courier deliver these applications?”

Marion grabbed the stack of portfolios from the desk and added it to the heavy stack of material in her arms. “No, I’m going to tie a pretty bow around them and deliver them to her myself.”

“Thank you,” her assistant said. “You have a student waiting in your office, by the way—the one who needed the book on the Bosch painting.”

Marion looked toward her office, but saw nothing past the door and windows covered with wooden blinds. “Oh, good. How long has she been waiting?”

“Ten minutes or so,” Ruth said. “I said you were due back from a lecture any time, she said she’d wait...”

“Then I better not keep her waiting,” Marion replied. After she had taken the time days ago to find the book for such an obscure piece of renaissance erotic art, but one in which Marion loved, she’d started to wonder if the requester would ever show her face. It wouldn’t have surprised Marion; many students before this one had backed out at the last minute when they needed materials about the more colorful subjects of her life’s work. “I’m expecting someone to arrive on the half hour for lunch. Buzz me when he gets here.”

Ruth nodded her head and turned back to her computer. “Of course, Mari.”

Marion grabbed her coffee from the shelf she’d set it on earlier and carefully waddled the rest of the way to her door with the frosted glass window and black letters spelling her name. It stood slightly ajar—thankfully—allowing her to push it open with a hip instead of maneuvering the things in her hands to twist a knob.

“Good morning,” Marion said cheerfully, taking a step into the room and kicking the door shut behind her. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting—I had a few questions after my lectures.”

The girl sitting in the chair had a bright smile on her lips when she turned to look at the door. “No problem, I understand.”

Marion paused, momentarily attempting to reconcile her idea of what sort of student she expected to find to who actually sat in her office. The student wasn’t a “girl” in the very basic sense of the word, especially as Marion applied it to the teens and early twenty-somethings that predominated the university halls. This was an older _woman_ , maybe only a few years younger than she. She was pretty, too, that much was obvious. Long chocolate curls framed a face of flawless skin. She didn’t wear much makeup, but what she did wear was only enough to accentuate her dark hazel eyes. Her clothes were neat and well tailored to her slightly thicker frame.

This was a professional woman. Someone who had lived life a little. Not one of those spoiled idealist upstarts from the fancy boarding schools in which Marion was accustomed to teaching. But neither did she seem particularly academic in the sense of preferring to toil away on essays and presenting them at conferences. She had an open, creative spirit about her that screamed, “ARTIST!” Someone, in Marion’s typically correct estimation, who could become easily stifled by the restrictions of the university setting.

“You’re Emilia?” Marion asked.

She nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Marion set her things on her desk and quickly offered her hand. “Marion Jones. Just call me Marion, please.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marion,” Emilia replied. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get over here—life has been absolutely maddening between work and home.”

“I _had_ started to wonder if you’d ever show up,” Marion said with a chuckle, glancing at the wall lined with bookshelves behind her desk. She expected to spot the book she had set aside on her shelf of medieval and renaissance materials, but instead found the miniature Priapus statue, as proud as ever, on that row... and the porcelain dildo from the recent Mongolian dig on the shelf where Priapus had once been with his fellow ancient Greeks. Everything had been rearranged, and Marion instantly knew who to blame. “That bitch!”

The pejorative startled her guest. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, it’s not you, love,” Marion said, waving her off. “My colleague must have come in earlier and rearranged my bookshelves.”

“Ah.”

She trudged over to the desk and began replacing the artifacts where they belonged with their corresponding literature, by region and time period.

“My tutor wasn’t overstating that your specialty was sexual archaeology,” Emilia said.

“Anthropology, really,” Marion murmured, stuffing the statuette of Shiva back into his place. “But it all falls under the same umbrella. I simply prefer to dig old things up so they call me an archaeologist. You’re looking for the Bosch text, correct?”

Emilia nodded. “Yes, the commentary from José de Sigüenza. Professor Fitzgerald said you’d have it in the original Castilian.”

Marion grabbed the book from the shelf where she’d left it and slipped it under her arm. “I do. I’m afraid there’s not a very good translation in the text, so unless you have a decent grasp of Spanish it won’t be much help.”

“Oh, I think I’ll be fine,” Emilia said. “I speak and read Spanish.”

“I have to ask,” Marion said, stretching to reach the crystal phallus sitting prominently on top of the bookshelf—the one she’d only just received via shipment from the US. “Why Bosch? It’s rather random. You’re in for art history, I presume? I get an artistic vibe from you.”

Emilia laughed. “It sort of fell into my lap more than anything. It was _The Garden of Earthly Delights_ or the _Saint John Altarpiece_ by Massys. I’ve been to the Museo del Prado in Madrid and seen _The Garden_ , so I chose that—can I help you reach that?”

Marion stopped struggling and turned to look back at Emilia, who stood from her seat. She was tall. At least a head taller than Marion, and the perfect height to reach the crystal. “Would you?”

“Of course.” Emilia walked around the desk and easily stood on her toes to grasp the phallus and pull it down. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Least I can do for your help with the book,” Emilia replied.

Marion held out the phallus, inspecting it for a moment. “Marvelous piece, isn’t it? Just in from a dig in South America.”

Her guest giggled. “I think someone had a bit of wishful thinking.” Emilia glanced again at the other artifacts sitting in the shelves. “I think quite a few people had wishful thinking.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Marion replied. “My boyfriend is rather impressive... not that I should really be saying such things in front of a student.”

Emilia doubled over in laughter. “I don’t mind at all.”

Marion shoved the phallus back in the shelf next to the other renaissance-era texts. She offered the book to Emilia, who took it and ran a hand over the worn cover. “I hope you’ll find this book useful. If you need any more, please come and see me again.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you, Marion. This is very helpful.” Emilia walked back around to her seat and grabbed her bag to slip the book inside. “I’ve looked for this book all over England, and it seems you’re the only person who has it.”

“I’m a collector of rare and random texts,” Marion replied with a laugh, but before she could continue, the intercom buzzed loudly from her desk. “Excuse me.” She pressed the button. “Yes, Ruth?”

There was a moment of silence and then, “Marion, your… he… Ben… Benedict is here to see you.”

Marion grinned from ear to ear. “Send him in.”

She looked up as the door swung open a second later to admit her handsome lover, complete with Sherlock hair, though he had changed out of his costume. He didn’t stop to ascertain that they were alone and walked straight over to her. She sighed in contentment when his hands tangled in her hair at the back of her head in the midst of kissing her. Deeply. As though she were an oasis and he’d been walking through the Sahara for days. It felt wonderful to be needed like that.

A throat cleared somewhere in the room and it took Marion a moment to remember she had a student there, and that this scene probably wasn’t a professional one or even one that seemed logical—most people wouldn’t have expected a famous actor to come walking in to an university professor’s office to take her out to lunch. Sufficiently pulled from the moment and his needy kisses, Marion stepped back a little and licked her rapidly swelling lips.

Marion was just about to say something when Ben’s deep timbre startled her. “Emilia?”

“Benedict?!” Emilia squeaked. “What are you doing here?”

Marion raised one eyebrow as she assessed the situation, the gears slowly turning in her head until the cogs and pins began slipping into place.

“Marion is my girlfriend. Well, I mean I hope she is, we’ve only actually been seeing each other for a week, but we’ve been email dating since… well… since...” he said as he gathered her up into a tight hug. “She was the one I was telling you about.”

Marion looked between them and, like a light bulb clicking on illuminating the darkness, everything fell into place. Everything suddenly made sense. “You’re who broke his heart. You’re the one who pushed him—It was you! You’re _that_ Emilia!”

“Oh, Marion, it was a mutual thing, I didn’t push—” Emilia started.

“Dr Jones.” Marion made no effort to disguise her contempt, even though she didn’t know why she felt so vitriolic. Emilia seemed like a nice enough a girl, but how could she have rejected Ben?

Emilia’s shoulders slumped. She sighed the sigh of someone long suffering. “Dr Jones, Ben is just a good friend. It was because of me… that he…”

“Marion,” Ben started. She looked up at him, his blue eyes filled with something close to admiration and love. “It’s really alright. Without her, I would have never found you. Don’t be too mad at her.”

She leaned into him and possessively ran her hand over his chest from the center all the way down to the waist of his jeans. Emilia at least had the decency to avert her eyes, a rosiness rising on her perfect cheeks. Marion instantly hated how fetching it made Emilia, even in her apparent discomfort.

Ben leaned in and drew his lover’s attention away from Emilia with another kiss, cradling Marion’s head in his hand and tipping her back a little. He broke the kiss and smiled. Marion knew he was trying to diffuse the situation, but it wasn’t working.

Emilia made another noise as they both turned to face her. “I think I’m going to go. Thank you for the book, Dr Jones. I’ll have it returned to you by the end of the term. Ben, I’ll see you soon. Sam will be asking for you once he hears that I’ve seen you.”

Ben nodded and smiled warmly. “I owe him a footy date. I’ve not seen my buddy in awhile. Tell him I’ll call him in a few days.”

Emilia nodded. “Of course. Both of you have a lovely afternoon.”

Marion waited until Emilia had exited the room before she dared look back up at Ben. Ben was hers. Not Emilia’s. He would never be Emilia’s. Ben ran a hand through the mop of curls on his head.

“You never said you knew her,” Ben murmured. “What a small world.”

“I didn’t know her until a little bit ago,” Marion said, but had to stop when he kissed her again. “I don’t like that you still see her. She broke your heart.”

“And you mended it in a most spectacular fashion, love.” He left her side and fell into the chair behind her desk. Ben looked at her expectantly, but said nothing more as though he’d placated her enough. She was, however, far from satisfied.

“So that’s it, then? You’re still going to keep seeing her?”

Ben groaned. “Marion, love, she’s my friend. I’ve been keeping my distance from her not only because I was sad it didn’t work, but also because she asked me to stay away for awhile. After what happened in March—”

“What happened in March?”

“The thing with Tom Hiddleston and Georgina Cavendish,” he said. “We haven’t really had the chance to talk about it—I didn’t tell you about that because then you would have known it was me when we were emailing.”

Marion frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. Nothing good could ever come from a story that involved Georgina Cavendish. After all, the painful memories of school bullying still haunted Marion. But it didn’t make her feel any less wary of Emilia. “I don’t know what happened.”

“You mean you didn’t see the bomb that dropped? Tom and Emilia were sleeping together when he was still supposedly in a relationship with Georgina, though that’s a whole mess I can’t get into right now. My name got dragged through the mud, too, because I’d been trying to woo Emilia. I was attracted to her, but we didn’t want the same things,” Ben explained, though Marion felt sure there was a lot of the story he was leaving out in his summary. “If you want to blame anyone, blame me. Because I pushed Emilia. She just didn’t know what she wanted. And Georgina fucked it up for everyone.”

Marion sighed.

“Now,” Ben said. “I’ve come to take you out for lunch. Can we please forget about it and have a good lunch?”

She closed her eyes and nodded her head. It wasn’t worth the fight. Her issue was with Emilia, not with Ben, and it was only because she was insecure in herself. Marion settled onto the desk in front of him, the action pulling up her skirt just a little bit to show her thighs. “And just what did you have in mind to—ahem—eat for lunch, Benedict?”

That was all it took to get their mind off the matter, at least for several heated, rushed minutes. Marion finally came to a rest supported against his chest and clung to him, not willing to let him up from the chair and out of her grasp. Benedict Cumberbatch was _hers_.

“You’re very good at that. _Exceptionally_ good at that,” she said, brushing her lips against his sweaty temple.

Ben’s deep chuckle resonated through her chest and through to the rest of her body. He smiled and kissed her forehead. “I can’t say I have ever had any complaints, even when I was a teenager. Some people are just born with natural talent.”

“Oh, yes, I can agree with that,” she giggled. “Or maybe it was all the fertility symbols. You were hopped up on their power. They made you feel like a man.”

He growled a little and pushed her back towards the desk, nipping at her neck again. “I’m always a man. Almost more man than _you_ can handle.”

“Oh, really? As an appraiser of cock from around the world…” she started.

“You can stop right there. I don’t need to know how my cock compares to some ancient Mongol’s from two thousand years ago. I can guarantee you I’ve certainly used it with far more vigor and style this afternoon…” he laughed a little more.

“Attila the Hun had _hundreds_ of lovers. And thousands of children, supposedly,” she said. “Now that’s a legacy.”

“I only want one—maybe three at the most.” He winked at her. “Now, get right, I really am going to take you to lunch, Marion Jones. I am famished. I feel like I’ve run a marathon.”

She needed no more inducement to stand from her spot and wiggle her hips a bit to push her skirt down over her thighs. “Oh, darling, you did exercise quite vigorously.”

They silently worked together sorting out the few garments they’d scattered about, smoothing hair and fixing makeup. It wasn’t until Marion was reaching into her desk drawer for her handbag that Ben grabbed her arm and pulled her to his chest, planting another dizzying kiss on her lips. When he finished, he stepped back and cupped her cheek with his large hand. His thumb traced the contour of her oversensitive lips, burning a trail as it moved.

“You know you don’t have anything to worry about with Emilia, right?” he asked quietly.

She looked up at him. “I don’t?”

“No. Nothing,” he said. Benedict pushed a wisp of hair from her perspiring forehead. “The first time you cracked a joke and sent me a picture of a crude drawing that you had found in a cave, I knew you were the girl for me. You make me smile and laugh. You’re the _only_ girl I could ever want.”

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“Positive, milady,” he said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips for a sweet kiss.

With that assurance, he lead her from the office hand-in-hand. Ruth jumped a half mile when the door opened, as though she’d been caught red handed. She blushed and spluttered.

Marion frowned. “Ruth, are you okay?”

“I, um… yes…” she managed, but barely. “Just, um, you know how the button on your intercom is really sensitive?”

Marion nodded. “Yeah, we have a work order in for a new one, don’t we?”

“We do. I just, um, sometimes you would… hit the button…”

Marion looked at her and then at Benedict before she burst out laughing. “Oh my god, Ruth, I am so sorry. Next time we’ll be more careful.”

“Please,” was her assistant’s strangled reply.

Marion giggled. “Anytime.”

Ben’s confusion only made her laugh more. Ruth hid her face when Ben asked why she was laughing. “Does someone want to explain to me what exactly all that means?”

“I’ll explain it at lunch,” Marion said. “I’ll be out, Ruth. Hold down the fort.”

“Of course,” Ruth said, busying herself by clicking randomly on her computer screen so she didn’t have to look at them. Marion chuckled once more and pulled her very confused boyfriend out of the building into the bracing November chill.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to read the last After the Masquerade One Shot before this. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Chapter 6**

Ismay groaned and pulled away from her position standing over Marion, eyeliner still in hand and dangerously near poking Marion’s eye out. “Would you _please_ sit still? I will tie you down if I have to.”

“Sorry,” Marion replied. “I’m nervous. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”

“I do, but do you want me to poke your eye out and then you have to go to the dinner with a patch and explain to everyone what happened?”

“No. Of course not.” She wanted to look perfect, as though that would have anything to do with mitigating the circumstances of lying to Ben about her family.

Ismay chuckled. “Well, then, good. Fucking sit still. I’m almost done.”

Marion breathed in a long, soothing breath and let it out slowly, attempting to concentrate on the filling and releasing of her lungs instead of the other thoughts rushing through her head. Tonight was the night Ben would meet her immediate family. Tonight was the night when he realized she was a little more than just an earl’s daughter. Tonight was the night when she found out if the past seven months had been a waste of her time. 

Every possible scenario about how it would happened had played through her head repeatedly in the last half hour as Ismay had tried to do her makeup, and each scenario grew more and more devastating. Why couldn’t she just see into the future to know what would actually happen? Then she could calm down and prepare. There would be no preparing for this. Only lots of wishing and hoping that certain things came to pass. 

At least she knew she’d look good doing it.

Ismay finished her work and stepped back. “There, I’m done.”

Marion glanced at herself in the mirror. She blinked, then closed one eye to look at the work before alternating to the other. She sighed in relief and looked up at her Amazonian friend. “Thanks, Iz. You always manage to get the wings on the eyeliner right.”

Ismay smiled and shook her head. “Not a problem. It’s what best bitches do.” 

“I really hate when you say that,” Marion replied.

“Too bad. Go get in your dress. We’re going to be late if you continue to find fault in everything I do.”

Marion laughed. “I could write a series of books on your faults.”

“Trust me,” Ismay said, “you are not free of sin yourself, lassie. Your series would be longer than the Encyclopædia Britannica!” 

“Don’t I know it.” Marion continued giggling her way back into the bedroom and to the plain midnight blue evening gown hanging on the back of her wardrobe door. It was beautiful even its simplicity and about three sizes too small, or at least it felt like it as she stepped into the pooled fabric and pulled it up the length of her body. “I’m so bloated and my tits hurt.”

Ismay chuckled and breezed by her with her bag of makeup in hand. “Good thing you had some room to give in the dress, then.”

“Sometimes it really is a pain being a girl,” Marion sighed. She stepped in front of the long mirror and smoothed the gown over her body and picked at the asymmetrical strap. “You’re lucky. You don’t have to look like a cupcake tonight.”

There was a snort and a short laugh. “You look beautiful. And Ben is going to love getting you out of the dress later. Just think you’ve got that to look forward to if Aunt Flo doesn’t pay you a visit by then.”

“Who’s saying that’d stop me?”

“Well, you know. Most men can’t do blood. Just figured he’d be the same way.”

Marion cast her friend a small smirk with a raised brow. “Can we stop talking about my monthlies?”

“Fine. But you don’t look like a cupcake. A cake topper maybe…”

“Not helping, Iz. You know how I hate these things. I hate pretending I’m something I’m not. I hate simpering and hobnobbing and all that. Why couldn’t I have been born, not… _this_?” Marion motioned to the dressing table and the various accouterment of royal orders and the simple tiara she’d been given on her eighteenth birthday. “Why did my father have to be the Earl of Ravenwood?”

“Luck.” Ismay shrugged. 

“And why the fuck do these Trust dinners have to be white tie with tiaras and orders?” 

Ismay stepped up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Because you lot need an excuse to wear them out once and awhile to reassert your rapidly dwindling importance in the social, political and economic hierarchy of the United Kingdom.”

Marion rolled her eyes at Ismay’s by-the-book reply, no matter how true she knew it to be. “A simple exclamation of solidarity was all I needed, Ismay.”

“Well, then, fuck the Trust for wanting to cart out their token royals,” she said. “And your da for being a very, very minor royal.”

“Thanks.”

Ismay chuckled. “No problem. Now are you just going to stand there or actually put the tiara on?”

Marion handed the heavy thing to Ismay, who stood tall enough that she could easily slip it into the up-do she’d managed to tame her hair into earlier. Stretching her neck and checking how secure it was, Marion took the time to get used to the weight since the last time she’d worn it. She thanked Ismay and glanced back in the mirror, the light above them catching the pearls and diamonds.

“God, I feel sick. Ben is going to see all this tonight and realize I didn’t tell him everything about me and that this isn’t what he wants—that I’m not worth it at all. He’ll never make it to the next level of the family. And if he does, he _certainly_ isn’t going to want me then.”

Ismay shook her head. “Marion, look at me.”

She looked up at her tall, statuesque best friend after Ismay physically had to turn her. “Ben is never _not_ going to want you. He’ll learn to deal with this insanity that is your life. He’ll want you, he loves you. I can tell. No one has ever looked at you the way he does. No one.” 

“You’re just saying that because you have to,” she replied. 

“No, I’m saying it because I love you and I mean it. You are worth it. And you both are everything to each other. Trust me.” 

“Well, tonight is the test.” Marion sighed and reached for the red, white and blue sash in which the Victorian Cross dangled from one end. “If he can’t handle this, it’s Lionel for me.”

“Oh, god, no. If Ben can’t handle it, we’ll find you someone else. You will never ever have to date, marry, or go near Lionel if I have anything to say about it.” 

Marion stood on her toes and kissed her friend’s cheek. “You’re too good a friend to me. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Ismay said. “But getting to hang out with Will, Red and Kate occasionally is worth it in the end.”

The tone of Ben saying ‘pengwings’ interrupted their conversation, causing Ismay to grunt in annoyance and turn back toward the bathroom for another pass at her own makeup. Marion grabbed her mobile from the night stand and swiped her finger across the screen to read the message. 

_Filming running late. Not sure I will be there by the start. Or even at all. I’m sorry. I know this is a big night for you. I feel horrible. Please don’t be mad._

In that moment, it felt as though the heaviest weight imaginable had lifted off of her shoulders. That he wasn’t going to be there was more than a huge relief; it was a godsend. As much as she would have preferred to endure the evening with someone diverting, it could have all gone all horribly wrong if he had appeared as he planned. If she had taken the time and thought it through before hand, she might have actually engineered it herself so that he couldn’t attend.

“What did he say?” Ismay asked. 

“Filming is going late and he’s not coming.”

Ismay shook her head. “Are you _kidding_ me? After all that fucking worrying? You dodged a bullet there. What’s it like living such a charmed existence?”

“I’m _thrilled_ ,” Marion said, sitting on the footstool at the end of her bed to type out her reply message. “How do I make it sound sad, but accepting, and not at all as though I’m really breathing a huge sigh of relief?”

“There’s something really fucked up about this, Marion,” Ismay said. “You should tell him anyway.”

Marion frowned. “Yes, but not tonight.”

“Then when? Next week? Or the week after when you’re packing for Sandringham? Or are you somehow going to keep it a secret until he walks into the bloody entrance hall and sees the fucking Queen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now!” Marion said. “We have some place to be in a very short time and I’d like not to be in a snit when we arrive.”

Ismay shook her head. “We sound like an old married couple—and no, I don’t plan to let this go. I actually like the guy. I don’t want you to fuck it up.”

Marion sighed and pinched the bridge of nose, feeling the telltale pressure of a headache forming just behind her eyes. It’d been threatening all day, but it had bloomed considerably in the last few moments. She certainly didn’t need this from Ismay. Marion was well aware of the fact that she was likely dooming her relationship with Ben by keeping this from him for so long, but she also felt if he was so out of the loop—that he had not made the connection yet as to who she was, her name, and that of Wilhelmina, who didn’t go a day without being in every single tabloid known to mankind—then he didn’t really deserve to know the truth right away, either. Her logic wasn’t completely sound, but it let her sleep at night.

Her friend ambled back into the room and dropped on the seat beside her. Marion looked over at Ismay and shook her head. Ismay responded with a hug. 

“I don’t know what to do, Ismay. I’ve kept this all from him for a month now, and now it’s like it’s gone on too long to even say anything about it.”

“I told you—”

“I know you told me.”

“You need to tell him now, before it goes any further,” Ismay said. “He might even see something in the tabs from tonight with the whole family, then you’ll be in a world of hurt. It’ll be better coming from you.”

“I know... I just...”

Two sharp knocks at the bedroom door startled both women and Marion jumped back from her friend in surprise.

“Marion, the car’s here,” Jane said from the other side of the door.

“Oh, is it? So soon?”

Jane huffed. “It’s late, actually. By fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll be done shortly, Janey,” Ismay called back. She squeezed Marion one last time before standing up. “Now finish getting ready. We’ve got elbows to rub and donors’ pockets to empty.”

*****

Marion looked at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time that night, trying to abstain from fidgeting about in the spot beside her father, because ladies didn’t fidget and make a scene—even when their high heels hurt their feet and their stockings made them feel like plump little sausages incased in silk or nylon.

She was bored; she always was at these things. She’d been bored since the age of thirteen and had been made to go to her first dinner at the palace. It’d been a family do—all current and previous generations (and their offspring) of the royal family had been invited—so not as much pressure as a state function. Still, the constraints and protocol of her minimally royal life had come sharply, and painfully, into contrast that night. Especially so when she’d been scolded by Nanny and Elsa for talking too loudly and putting her elbows on the dinner table. 

After all, she’d been weaned on dinners around dig campfires in the sands of the Egyptian desert, not the stately ballrooms of the British aristocracy. Her father saw fit to give her that nontraditional upbringing, but it didn’t serve her well later on in life when he married a Belgian princess who expected all little girls to behave appropriately.

The same man—the one who stood beside her this evening—had comforted her after and told her that no royal was ever expected to be perfect and she’d done well on her first time out in such a capacity. He’d been so forgiving even though she’d also very nearly dumped a full glass of red wine all over the Queen Mother before he finally whisked her home to avoid any more embarrassment. Elsa had been furious at his apparent disregard for her _own_ embarrassment that they’d gotten into a loud row that led to her stepmother sleeping in another room for a few weeks. Marion remembered staying clear of the persnickety woman until, at last, her father had taken her out for some father-daughter deer stalking in the country so he could explain the finer points of being a royal—at which point he also mentioned she would be going to finishing school.

He’d told her that, like it or not, these evenings were a part of being Lady Marion Jones, daughter to Dr. Henry Jones, Earl of Ravenwood, one of the last few truly royal earldoms left in England. In situations such as these, she was meant to be dutiful and respectful, to speak softly but confidently, and remember her table manners at any cost. And even when someone appeared whom she did not particularly like, she was still honor bound to smile and make pleasantries. Because that’s what royals did, even when they had the unfortunate luck to be born into such a life.

She felt her father’s warm hand on her arm, drawing her out of her thoughts. Marion glanced up at him with a smile on her face. “Yes, Father?”

“You look deep in thought, darling, what is it?” he asked.

Marion leaned into him, to speak only in his confidence. “Just thinking about how much I hate this. You know I’m not comfortable. I hate dinners, I hate department functions and I particularly loathe them when they cross over.”

“But this is one of the joys of being my daughter, at a university where our family is patron and you are tenured. You only have to suffer through this once a year. I don’t think it’s too much to ask,” he said in an equally quiet measure. “Besides, I thought you said your… boyfriend… planned to attend. Surely he would have made this evening more bearable.” 

“He had to stay late at work and had to cancel last minute,” she said. 

“I’m beginning to think he’s not real.”

Marion cast a sideways glance at him. “He’s real. As real as you and me.”

“I’ve just not seen him and he’s busy all the time. And you have been seeing him for a little while now…” He sighed and nodded to a passing couple. 

Marion smiled at the people and leaned into him again. “He’s real. I can show you.” 

She pulled her mobile from her clutch (though it was a breach of etiquette to do so) and quickly scrolled through her pictures for one of both of them. Ben was kissing her temple and she was beaming from ear to ear. She smiled at the memory when she saw it and handed it over to her father, relishing in the moment that his eyes grew wide with recognition. He glanced at her then at the mobile in disbelief.

“ _That’s_ who you’re dating.” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re dating _Bandicoot Cucumberpatch_?” he asked. 

Marion grinned and nodded. “I am, Dad. Filming ran late tonight. His name is _Benedict_ , by the way, and he makes me… so happy.” 

“Well, I’m happy for you, obviously, but you’ve always gone on and on about having a private life,” he said as he held the mobile for her. “You’re not going to have a private life with him. He’s in the gossip columns just as much as your sister and Harry are.”

“I know.”

“You know it has to be approved. And someone who invites _more_ attention on the family isn’t going to be seen as a huge catch.”

Marion laughed. “We’re not bloody married yet! Don’t put the cart before the horse.”

“I’m only pointing it out,” he replied and bumped her shoulder with his. A fatherly smile crossed his lips, his only allowable sign of affection out in public. “I’m happy you’re so happy, though.”

“Thank you, Dad.”

She wasn’t worried about the family’s approval. That would come in time. First, she had to actually tell Benedict about her family ties. He might, after all, never make it to them. 

She sighed again and slipped the mobile back into her clutch, again looking out on the room only to catch Elsa’s gaze. She’d been waiting for the connection, too, because she wasted no time bearing down on Marion like an aloft eagle that had spotted its prey. Her stepmother’s talons had come out and she was prepared to make a kill. Marion hoped it was a quick death, so she wasn’t required to converse with the woman in a gorgeous dress the color of champagne who accompanied Lady Ravenwood across the room.

Unable to run, hide, or disguise herself with her surroundings, Marion quickly muttered a short prayer that this new torture did not last long. She put on what she hoped was a tolerable smile. “Marion, darling, have you met Miss Georgina Cavendish?”

Georgina smiled. “We have, Lady Ravenwood, long ago in school.”

God, her voice was still as grating as ever. 

Marion frowned but offered her hand anyway. Damn protocol and damn not wanting to draw the attention of everyone in the room for what some would consider poor manners or a personal affront. “So nice of you to come, Miss Cavendish.”

“Thank you.” 

Marion shuddered as skeletal fingers slipped into her hand. The handshake was limp, but not on Marion’s part.

Marion reclaimed her hand and folded her hands in front of her, her clutch between them. Hopefully they wouldn’t see her knuckles turning white as she fought the urge to punch Georgina. 

“Georgina and I were just discussing the magazine article _Elle_ wants to do with you and your sister,” Elsa explained. “And Georgina’s agreed to help style the both of you for the photographs.”

Marion was so surprised by the news that she couldn’t contain the short burst of laughter that escaped her lips. “Excuse me?”

“She’ll be doing your clothing and such for the shoot,” Elsa said. “We’ve hired her as Wilhelmina’s stylist for the next year. Well, we have on the condition that Georgina can convince you to do the shoot.”

Marion hated Elsa. Okay, she didn’t _hate_ Elsa. There were days she actually really loved the woman. But Elsa knew that in a setting like this, Marion would have her hands tied and anything she truly wanted to say about the matter would have to be kept silent. Because that was protocol and that’s what you were honor bound to do in such a situation. And they were going to try their hardest to get her to accept because that’s what they wanted.

“How... interesting,” Marion replied, finding Georgina’s cold blue gaze on her. Assessing her. She could see the woman’s revulsion. 

Elsa smiled. “Ah, your father’s waving at me. You two talk.”

And that was how Marion was left staring down the biggest, bitchiest school bully Marion had ever faced. There was a difference now, though. In school there’d been a cliquish inequality that not even blood and money could wash away—and, perhaps, made the situation even worse—but now they were adults and Marion clearly had the upper hand. Georgina didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing her of anything because Marion knew better than to pander to her for attention. This was Marion’s show.

“You do look so...” Georgina said, struggling for a word, “lovely this evening, Marion.”

“Thanks,” Marion replied.

“I could do a lot for you. For your look. I have this idea of doing a very beautiful modern elegance shoot, in evening gowns and such,” Georgina explained. “And you’ll fit into the couture ones now since you’re not as chubby as you were in school. You’ll have to tell me what your secret is, by te way.”

Marion bit her tongue. “It’s not starving myself or shoving a finger down my throat, that’s for sure.”

That did it. Seeing Georgina change from the perfect angel she’d been trying to portray herself as to the rotten, entitled bitch Marion knew her to be was astounding. The mask just fell away.

“Look,” she replied. “I know you hate me, but I only ever did what I thought would help you.”

“Just shut your mouth. It’s not going to work. You made my life a living hell and I’m not going to have a repeat performance of it simply because my stepmother and sister want you to do something.”

Georgina spluttered. “I need this contract! Can’t you see a way for us to get past—”

Marion chuckled. “Nope.”

“You know, I’ll find something to entice you to do it.”

“You won’t.”

Georgina took it as a challenge. “I have _so_ much to use, too. Didn’t I hear Ismay and some dowdy little woman from your office talking about your boyfriend? How you ever managed to ensnare him...”

“It must really annoy you that men like Benedict fall in love with women like me,” Marion said. She knew she shouldn’t have said anything. Doing so was only feeding the fire.

Georgina consumed the kindling. “I couldn’t care less about Benedict. He’s not very attractive, though his name and his celebrity would be worth it. I can see the appeal.”

Marion wanted to punch her. “But he’s no Tom Hiddleston, huh?”

“Why, you little—”

“Couldn’t even keep him interested, could you? Went off with your assistant, if I remember correctly,” Marion said.

Georgina rolled her eyes and flipped her hair behind her shoulder as though it were water off a duck’s back. “He just didn’t know the mistake he made. I guarantee you he’s suffering for it now.”

“Really? I heard a rumor he’d moved on from you, just recently,” Marion said. “With Emilia Wyck.”

Marion would have been lying if someone asked her later and she said she hadn’t taken any joy in delivering that blow to her. Clearly, Georgina didn’t know. The woman’s face turned bright red as she struggled to contain herself.

“You’re lying.”

Marion shrugged her shoulders and didn’t respond. They stood together in tense silence for a few more moments before Georgina made an obnoxious harrumph and turned on her feet. She pushed through the crowd toward the exit with her nose held high.

_Score one for me._

“How did it go?” asked the voice behind her a few minutes later.

She turned to find Elsa. “I don’t think I’m going to do the article.”

“But you have to.”

“No, I don’t,” Marion said. “Especially not when Georgina’s involved.”

“But she’s the best.”

Marion shrugged.

“Honestly, Marion, the things I try to do for you—”

The blossoming argument came to a complete halt when a loud commotion coming from the exit interrupted them. Marion turned to look at the bottleneck at the door but could see nothing. Jane slipped past the group talking hurriedly and into the room. Someone was asking for a nurse or a medical doctor.

Jane walked calmly across the floor and stopped beside Marion. She knew it as Jane’s protective stance. All she needed was an earpiece and black sunglasses.

“What’s going on, Jane?” Marion asked. “Did something happen?”

Jane looked at her. “I believe Georgina Cavendish may have fallen down a few steps and broken her ankle.”

“What?!” Elsa exclaimed. “I have to go see that she’s okay.”

Marion frowned. “She fell?”

Jane shrugged her shoulders and clasped her hands behind her back. “The carpet in this building is old, you know. It snags terribly on sharp objects. And with her shoes—she was just asking to fall.”

“But the ankle—how do you know it was her ankle?”

“Simply assuming.”

“Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this.”

Jane looked at her innocently. “I have no idea what you’re insinuating, Marion. I had only gone to the ladies’ and saw her fall. I couldn’t stop it, so I simply _had_ to let it happen.”

“So you didn’t hear the conversation between us before she stormed out?”

Come to think of it, Marion hadn’t known where Jane was most of the night. But she had a habit of blending in with the crowd. That was her training.

“It’s not my job to listen in,” she said. “But _had_ I listened in, I would have to congratulate you on standing your own against bullies like her. I hate bullies.”

“Thank you, Jane.”

Jane nodded. “I’m sure she’ll be fine after some mending. Shall I go see that she makes it to hospital?”

Marion laughed and stepped over to the woman, wrapping an arm around her despite protocol. Jane tensed a moment, clearly not liking the contact, but she eased slightly. “No, I’m sure she’s quite alright. But if you could call my car, I’d like to go home. I’ve been here long enough.”

“Very well, ma’am.”


End file.
